


Darkest Hour Before Dawn

by SunseticMonster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Drama, Hogwarts Era, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Humor, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 227,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunseticMonster/pseuds/SunseticMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco must complete a task for the Dark Lord in return for his family's lives. Can Harry keep Draco from self-destructing as he faces a year of impossible ultimatums? 6yr rewrite, some canon changes, substance abuse m/m</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry was pissed. And pissed. For the last four hours he had played the "listening ear" for Hermione and then Ron and then the third wheel witness to their ensuing argument. They'd droned on about Ron's lack of interest in SPEW and Hermione's lack of interest in the Chudley Cannons' play-by-play that Ron was blasting out of a small radio that the twins had left for him.

Harry had picked up on the word "elves" and exclaimed, "Er-right! Dobby! Uh, I need to go see Dobby! Right." Then he picked up his bag and ran from the Gryffindor common room down to the painting of the fruit. He didn't have his Marauder's Map with him, or his Invisibility Cloak. He didn't care-he just needed to get away as quickly as possible.

He tickled the pear and climbed into the kitchen. Shiny silver and copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling or were clanking and cooking on gleaming metal countertops and stoves. The kitchens were clean and pristine, save for the tiny army of elves, covered in flour and food-stained aprons, running busily about.

"Harry Potter!" cried a familiar voice, and Harry saw the top of a stack of 20 knit hats bow to him. "Sir-it is being such an honor for Harry Potter to come here. Why is Master in the kitchen? Dobby is bringing him some treacle tart!"

"Hi Dobby!" Harry offered, and waved awkwardly to the twenty or so elves who had frozen in place to stare at him. "I-uh-don't mean to interrupt but-" Harry lowered his voice as he spoke, causing Dobby to neglect the treacle tart preparation and inch toward Harry.

"Anything for you, Harry Potter!" Dobby said in awe, his bat-like ears pressed back and his blinking eyes reflecting the torchlight coming from the kitchen walls.

The other elves had mostly gone back to their work, save for a few pointed looks and the mutter of "Harry Potter," that could be heard through their kitchen-talk.

"Actually," he cleared his throat. "I kind of need a favor, Dobby. "

"Anythi—"

"Do you have Firewhisky?" he mumbled, embarrassed.

"Sir is needing alcohol?" Dobby murmured, his wide eyes looking scandalized. "But-"

"Don't ask, Dobby." Harry looked down at the elf, who seemed to be looking over his shoulders to make sure no one had heard. "Can you get some? Er-please?"

"Dobby will get Firewhisky for Mr. Harry Potter, sir," Dobby concluded, and sulked off towards the cabinets in the kitchen with his head down.

Harry looked to his right at the fireplace in the kitchen where Winky the house elf was swaying on a stool. Empty Butterbeer bottles littered her feet and Harry remembered that alcohol was a sore subject for Dobby and the other house elves, who felt ashamed of Winky's alcoholism.

Dobby returned moments later with a burlap sack that was clinking conspicuously. Other elves seemed to know that Dobby was sneaking alcohol to a sixth year student, but did not say anything. This was Harry Potter, after all.

"Thanks Dobby," said Harry, feeling embarrassed. The idea of going to Dobby for alcohol had been much easier to handle than the actuality of carrying it out. He felt like a ponce. "Um, just, let me know if you need-"

"It is always an honor serving Harry Potter, sir. Dobby is not needing anything in return, sir."

"Uh, okay. Thanks again, Dobby!" Harry said tto Dobby and the others and stuffed the clinking burlap bag into his less conspicuous school messenger bag. He turned toward the back of the portrait and ducked out into castle hallways.

Harry headed past the Great Hall and toward the entrance way, making his way toward the old Owlery, an abandoned space in the West Tower that was now just an empty, windowless room. He needed a place where he could just be alone. And drink, he supposed. Harry rarely ever drank, save for a toast at a Weasley family holiday or a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, and never Firewhisky, but he'd been listening to Seamus and Dean brag about snogging some fifth years at the Hog's Head Tavern last weekend, and something about Firewhisky and it just seemed like maybe Harry was missing out. He'd been holding his breath as Voldemort invaded his mind on a nightly basis, holding his breath as Ron and Hermione's relationship began to change the dynamic of their trio, holding his breath as Cedric Diggory's life was ripped out of him, as his friends risked their lives for him, as Sirius fell back into the veil, as Draco Malfoy stomped his face and snuck around, and the more Harry was sure that Malfoy's antics were about much more than a childhood rivalry, the less his friends wanted to hear about it. He was tired of pretending and hiding, but it was all he knew how to do. He had grown up in a cupboard, after all.

Keeping an eye out for Peeves and Filch, but mostly just leaning on luck and apathy, Harry pulled one of the bottles of Ogden's Old Firewhisky out of his bag, twisted off the cap and took a small, tentative sip. He choked and squinted up his eyes as the hot liquor burned his throat and set his esophagus, from mouth to stomach, on medium-high heat. If anyone were to see him, his grimacing face would have given him away immediately, but he took a deep breath, manned up, and forced down two large swallows as he made his to the west tower.

Ducking into the staircase, he decided to sit on one of the stairs and wait until he was sure that no students would be making their way up toward the Owlery. As he sat, he drank, and as he drank in silence, he noticed every way that the alcohol was affecting his body. At first, he felt relaxed. Good, happy, warm. The Ron and Hermione thing didn't seem like quite as big of a deal or nearly as annoying as it truly was.

About halfway through his bottle, he let out a loud hiccup that echoed through the staircase and scared even him. He covered his mouth with his hand and giggled, stupidly.

Feeling it was late enough, and growing bored of the stuffy staircase, Harry shook his head, took another swig of the Firewhisky and frowned lazily. Hoisting his messenger bag on one shoulder and clutching the sloshing bottle in the other hand, Harry, wobbling, pulled himself into a precarious standing position and held himself there for a few seconds, gathering his bearings, before proceeding as carefully as he could up the winding stone staircase.

The dimly lit walls seemed to wave back and forth in front of him, and he felt as though he had little depth perception, but figured if he just trusted his distance instincts, he would get up to the Owlery one step at a time.

Harry brazenly pushed open the door of the Owlery and stumbled in, tripping over a green cloak on the floor and sprawling onto all fours. His bag flew off of him with the sound of clinking glass and his wand dropped out of his pocket and rolled away. As he scrambled to grab his wand, a shiny black shoe stepped in front of him, blocking his path, and a wand was pointed at his face.

"Fuck," Harry muttered, looking up blurrily at the sharp, blonde frame of Draco Malfoy. His gray eyes looked white in the moonlight that poured through the open windows and there was a glint of moisture on his face.

"Following me again are you, Potter?" he spat out, his voice cracking. Malfoy walked a slow circle around Harry and stepped slowly onto Harry's wand. He calmly raised his own wand and pointed it at Harry's face.

Harry reached out an arm. "Malf- Malfoy, pleas-"

" _Petrificus Totalus,"_ he responded. An angry red light shot out of Malfoy's wand and Harry felt his body stiffen as he collapsed onto his stomach, still gripping his bottle of Firewhisky.

Malfoy surveyed him carefully, stepping around him like he was an unknown specimen on the floor of the bathroom. He then stuck his foot under Harry's body and flipped him over so he was on his back, clutching a bottle and looking upwards, his face expressionless and serene.

Malfoy hovered his foot over Harry's face. "A bit of déjà vu-hmm?" He mimed stomping on Harry's face as he had on the Hogwarts Express in August and laughed. "Ah, but it looks like maybe you weren't following me this time after all. Not that that makes it acceptable for you to show your filthy face around me." He peered down at the bottle in Harry's clutched fingers and whistled. "Ogden's Old, eh? Tough night without a parade in your honor?"

Besides the blaring evidence of drinking the bottle proposed, Harry's drooping eyes were also betraying any leftover guise of sobriety, even under the Body-Bind curse.

Malfoy sauntered over to Harry's bag and opened it up. "And what have we here?" he mused, reaching in. He frowned after feeling around a bit, then peered into the bag. "Merlin, Potter. Five bottles? What on earth had you planned for tonight?" Malfoy reached back in and pulled out a bottle for himself. He twisted the cap and opened it.

"Well, I think it's only fair that I catch up to you before I can even consider letting you go, Potter. " Malfoy unscrewed the cap, tilted the bottle to his lips and drank heavily.

From his frozen, drunken state, Harry observed what was happening behind Malfoy's shocking tufts of silver-blonde hair. There was a cauldron in the middle of the room over a low fire and a makeshift Potions table littered with bottles and vials that had been dragged into the middle of the room, leaving a dusty trail. Silver smoke billowed out of the cauldron, casting a hazy glow around Malfoy's shoulders.

Malfoy leaned against a pole, shoulders slightly hunched and drawn into himself. He seemed to be struggling for a full breath and his face was twisted into a wide-eyed look of anguish, but he kept his jaw tightly clenched between sips, as if opening his mouth to speak or even breathe would be a direct betrayal of whatever he was doing up here. Every once in a while, he would meander over to the cauldron and give it a stir with his wand or sprinkle in an ingredient.

After a while, Malfoy wandered over to where Harry was and sank down to the floor beside him, his robes piled up around his crossed legs. As he drank, he just stared at Harry's face, which was more unnerving, Harry thought, than just being left there and forgotten. What had Malfoy planned? Why was he looking at him like that, in that sick, frozen state? It was perverse.

"Potter," Malfoy mused, taking another sip of the whiskey, exhaling heavily and rolling the bottle in his open palms. "Let's have a chat, shall we?" He tilted his head to the side, questioningly.

 _Kind of hard when I can't talk or move, arsehole,_ Harry thought.

"Hmm?" Malfoy leaned closer, wide-eyed and smirking. "Didn't catch that. Oh? Yes, you want to have a chat, yes, okay."

This is sick, Harry thought. He is completely, utterly deranged. It was like a conversation that a child would have with a doll or a Muggle TV set or any other inanimate object.

"You know," he continued, casually, gesturing with his bottle. "We have a lot in common. You and me, Potter. For one—" He took a long swig of the whiskey and winced as it burned down his throat. "You're drunk. And I'm, well." He took another swallow. "Getting there." He winked.

"Also, you're going to die soon. And," Malfoy laughed, bitterly. "So am I." Harry watched as Malfoy nudged his paralyzed leg, playfully. He raised his eyes conspiratorially and whispered, "We're dead men, walking, Potter. Doesn't matter what we do. If we do the right thing or the wrong, or what we perceive to be the right or wrong thing. . ." His voice trailed off. "And see, Potter, that is where the similarities end. What motivates me is a sense of morality." He glared at Harry. "Don't laugh," he muttered. Harry stared at him, face frozen, but Malfoy was right. Harry had laughed, in his head.

"See, the problem with you Potter—as if there was only one- is that you think you stand on the right side of the law-the line. Good versus evil, as if it were really that fucking simple," Malfoy remarked, lazily, and looked at the bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky in his hand. "Not quality, but getting the job done, eh?" Malfoy was slurring slightly now. He wiped sweat off of his mouth. His eyes were shining with alcohol. "May have to let you go soon," he muttered absentmindedly, picking up his wand.

"As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted," he snorted, keeping his head down, "what drives me is a sense of morality. What drives _you_ ," he pointed at Harry with his bottle of whiskey, "Is the childish notion of heroics." He sat and drank then, staring ahead of him for some time. Every once and a while he sniffed, as though he had allergies.

....

....

....

Some time later, Malfoy crawled over to Harry and peered down at him. His mouth twisted up and Harry momentarily thought Draco was going to spit in his face. "You," Malfoy breathed heavily and moved closer. Harry could smell the pungent alcohol, hot on Malfoy's breath. Malfoy's eyes, now heavily lidded like Harry's, shone glazed and intense upon on him. He gingerly grabbed the folds of Harry's robes that were bunched near his shoulders. "You," he said again, blinking, "don't know the difference between right and wrong. And that, " he chuckled, "is where _you're_ wrong. Your knowledge of morality comes from sodding fairy tales. _Beetle The Bard_ , or what'sit your Muggles read? _Grimm's_ fairy tales, is it?" He released Harry's robes and slumped back to the floor. " _Grimm's,"_ he muttered, then laughed again. "Bit of a foreboding name, wouldn't you say?" He cocked his head to the side, thoughtfully, and his ice-gray eyes frowned down at the floor. "S'pose. . . s'pose that makes me the evil one, eh Potter?"

Malfoy climbed to his feet unsteadily and ambled toward his Potions table. "S'pose that- that, even if I do right, or what I know's right for . . ." His voice trailed off as he stirred the cauldron, silver smoke in wisps around his white hair.

He set the wand down and raised his eyebrows at Harry. "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," he spat out, swallowing hard. His alcohol-relaxed eyes were in stark contrast to his tight set mouth and jaw. He peered down at Harry for a moment, his bleary eyes narrowed, then moseyed back over toward him, listing slightly. Malfoy bent and swiped to pick up the bottle of Firewhisky. Amber liquid sloshed around the bottom. Malfoy unscrewed the cap and took another long pull ending in an explosive gasp before wiping his chin where his aggressive consumption had caused whiskey to spill down his face and onto his robes.

Harry began to wonder if Malfoy had forgotten that he wasn't talking to a wall or a pet. He was talking to his sworn enemy, revealing fear, weakness, uncertainty. And a Malfoy, surely, never showed weakness. It was, Harry thought, more unsettling than being in the Body Bind. What exactly was Malfoy playing at?

Malfoy took another heavy breath, his shoulders rising and chest shuddering. He coughed, involuntarily, as if to compensate for the weak, shaking breath he had taken. His face was sweaty and blotched red from alcohol. Harry could see that his hands were trembling. Malfoy didn't say anything for some time. He wiped at his eye with the back of his robe sleeve and Harry couldn't be sure if it was wet from tears or just irritated from the dust in the room.

Malfoy looked back over at him and blinked, squinting. He must have realized where he was and who he was with, for he had a sudden, incredulous, scared look on his face. Fingering his wand, Malfoy mumbled something Harry couldn't understand, but suddenly Harry felt his hand unclench from the bottle. All his limbs seemed to slowly unfreeze.

Breathing deeply, Harry tried his voice. "M-m-Malfoy?"

Malfoy looked at him, defeated, and glared.

Harry wriggled his fingers. They tingled, as though they had just fallen asleep from lack of blood circulation. Instinctively, Harry reached for his wand and grabbed it, stumbling from a combination of drunkenness and partially usable limbs. He held it up shakily, pointing it at Malfoy.

"W-what," Harry gasped, "is WRONG with you?" He pulled himself into a kneeling position on the floor.

Malfoy barked out a laugh, his hands tightening around his wand. "Didn't we just spend half an hour talking about that?" He crossed his arms and sneered.

Harry shakily pulled himself up to a standing position. "No," he snarled, gaining strength, "no, Malfoy, _we_ did not talk about anything. _We_ did not have a conversation."

"What, Potter?" Malfoy tossed out lazily, looking bored with Harry's wand. "S'pose you're going to hex me now?" Malfoy rolled his eyes and sauntered back over to the cauldron, picking up the wand and stirring it, once, in a counter-clockwise direction.

Harry didn't lower his wand. He knew Malfoy. He couldn't be trusted, not in words or actions. It would take only a second for the Slytherin to throw another curse at Harry, if he let his defenses down. Although, Malfoy seemed well on his way to being as drunk as, if not moreso, than Harry.

"I should!" Harry yelled back. "I should! You'd deserve it!"

Malfoy threw his wand down suddenly and spread out his arms. "Go ahead! Please! Hex me Potter if it will make you feel justified, as I know truth, just'ce 'n honor are what you, Perfect Harry Potter, strive t'seek," he slurred, faltering at the end.

Harry narrowed his eyes, wand still pointed at Malfoy's heart. "I should, " he murmured. "I should. But I won't."

Malfoy laughed. "Ha! 'Course not. Merlin, Potter, you're so fucking predictable. And that," he picked his wand up off the Potions table and began stirring again, "Is precisely why you're going to die. Guessing your next move is like turning the page of a children's story. Pathetic. What a waste."

"Waste of what?"

"Power," Malfoy remarked, dismissively.

"Power?"

Malfoy sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. Suddenly, his hands tremored violently and his wand clattered to the floor. He glared, accusingly, at Harry, quickly snatched up his wand, and balled his shaking hands into tight, white-knuckled fists.

Harry stepped forward tentatively. "Are-are you okay, Malfoy?" he asked, wand still pointed at him.

"Piss off. Like you care." He took another shuddering breath that shook his shoulders and gripped the table at which he was working. After gathering himself, he glared up at Harry. "And would'ya lower your sodding wand or hex me, already?"

"Why should I?" Harry asked in a plain voice.

Malfoy exhaled and rolled his eyes. "You shouldn't." He smirked. "Idiot."

There was a rustle near one of the windows and Malfoy spun around, terrified, his wand shakily pointed forward. "Who's there!" He uttered, his voice breaking in fear, his hand still trembling violently.

"Malfoy-"

Malfoy gasped and spun back toward Harry, wand pointing wildly. His eyes were huge and he was sweating. "What?" he hissed through clenched teeth, wide eyed. He jerked his head back towards the sound. "Wh-who's there?" his voice, high pitched, faltered.

"Malfoy," Harry said again, softly, "relax. 'S just a bat. We're-we're in an Owlery, remember?" Malfoy eyed Harry suspiciously. Harry gestured with his wand, "Open windows, you know?"

Malfoy looked up and saw the bat. He let his breath out and whimpered, then reflexively coughed again to cover it.

Harry stared at Malfoy for a moment and fuzzily tried to take him in. He was shaking, sweating, wild-eyed, paranoid and drunk.

"Malfoy, seriously," Harry murmured. "You're scaring me-"

"Scared? Of me? Rightly so, Potter, carry on," he babbled, still eyeing the rafters distrustfully. "Have s'more Firewhisky, then."

"Maybe I will . . .you're welcome to more, if-if you like." The words were pouring out of Harry's mouth and he wasn't quite sure why he wasn't running out of the Owlery, bottles in tow. Malfoy's strange behavior should have sent him fleeing, but it was curiously attracting him like a magnet.

Malfoy tightened the grip on his wand and frowned at Harry.

"Or-or maybe, you've had enough-"

Malfoy began to laugh in a sickening, self-indulgent way that grew until he was hysterical. He was gasping for breath, wiping tears. "Enough?" he choked out, wildly. "Me? Now? Never!" He seemed to rise to an unspoken challenge, snatching the bottle next to him and unscrewing the top.

"What?" Harry asked, confused. "Are y'sure you aren't ill, Malfoy?"

Malfoy laughed harder, his laughter echoing through the room. "I-" he covered his mouth and snorted. "I never-I never said that."

Harry just stared at him, startled. Perhaps Malfoy really had gone mad. He seemed possessed, deranged. Still a volatile little wanker, but completely off.

"No," Malfoy continued, exhaling slowly as though to calm himself down and get serious. "No," he repeated, but his eyes were still wild. "This?" He gestured to the bottle. "I need this. No- I need- I need. . ." he was mumbling, nearly inaudible, "to just forget, relax, I need my. . ."

"Well," Harry began again tentatively, "I mean, you've had an entire bottle-I mean-so have I, I just think, maybe, well, aren't you drunk yet?"

Malfoy scoffed at the idea. "Me? Drunk? Pr'posterous." He adjusted the fire under the cauldron. "Malfoys don' get drunk. We just get more wittily charm-charmingly witty." He blinked hard to get Harry into focus. "And they say alcohol's 'sposed to relax you. Do I look relaxed to you, Potter?"

"Uhm." Harry took a drink of whiskey and slumped down on a nearby chest. "Er-you-you look drunk to me, Malfoy."

"That's not what I asked you."

Harry exhaled. "Fine, then. No. No, Malfoy, you don't look relaxed."

Malfoy smirked and returned to his potion. "Good," he snapped. "Didn' think so. Which means _this_ ," he held the bottle up in the air, "isn't fucking _working_." Malfoy flung the bottle across the room. It hit the opposite wall and shattered.

"Jesus, Malfoy!" Harry shouted.

Malfoy stirred his potion once more, before picking up a ladle and spooning the blue, glowing potion into a small vial. "And thus . . ."

"What is that?" Harry asked, finally, his curiosity getting the best of him. "Are you planning on poisoning me?"

"Pois'ning you, Potter?" Malfoy spat, trying to hold Harry's in a baleful gaze. "Poisoning _you._ Right, b'cause I _devined_ that your sodding drunk arse would come stumbling up here to bother me tonight," he rolled his eyes. "For once, not everything is about you."

Harry nodded. "Alright."

They were silent for a minute.

"Well?" Malfoy raised his eyebrows.

"Well what?" Harry retorted, wondering why the hell he was still there.

"Aren't you going to ask about the poison-er, potion-that I'm brewing?" Malfoy asked.

Harry took the bait. "Okay," he remarked. "What is it?"

"It," replied Malfoy, grandly, "is the Draught of Peace." He carried the bottle over toward Harry and leaned in close. "And it," he whispered, his whiskey breath hot on Harry's cheek, "is going to do what _this_ ," Malfoy ripped the bottle from Harry's grasp and flung it against another wall, shattering it, "has failed to accomplish."

Harry instinctively shoved Malfoy away and the blonde boy staggered backwards, losing his balance and grabbing the pole to keep upright. "You're nauseating," Harry growled. "Get away."

Malfoy shrugged and lifted the vial to his lips. "Down th'hatch then?"

"Wait-now?" Harry jumped up suddenly and grabbed Malfoy's wrist. "Stop!" he commanded. "You idiot!"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Get your filthy hands off me." He shrugged out of Harry's grasp and brought the vial back to his mouth.

"Seriously!" Harry yelled, "don't drink that! You can't-you shouldn't-"

"What?" Malfoy asked, scowling.

Harry had enough common sense to know that it was dangerous to mix a relaxant with alcohol, the effects of both drugs increasing with co-administration. "It's dangerous!"

Malfoy sighed, "Yes, Potter. 'Msure the rubbish you and th'Weasel cook up in Potions can be considered a class of poison all its own, but not everyone is as completely inept at following directions as you are. Now get away from me." He lifted the vial up to his mouth.

Harry let out a frustrated breath and grabbed Malfoy's wrist again. Malfoy's eyes flashed with rage.

"You insufferable moron, listen to me!" Harry yelled. "You can't take the Draught of Peace if you're drunk, you idiot! You could kill yourself!"

A sick smile spread across Malfoy's face. "Well then, I guess that would solve one problem for you. Or'r you gonna get lonely without being able to put your keen inves-gi-tagive skills to work after I pass? Excuse me."

"No, Malfoy, seriously-stop."

Malfoy rolled his eyes and sneered. "Oh, Potter, do stop fretting," he clipped. "And besides, 'm not drunk. Obviously. Or I wouldn't need this."

"You drank nearly a bottle of my Firewhisky."

"Yes, yes, I'll owl you payment in the morning if I make it through."

Harry scowled. "Is this a joke to you?"

....

....

....

Draco finally stopped and decided that placating Potter might get the insufferable git to shut up long enough for him to drink the Draught. "Listen, Potter, seriously. Thank you for your concern, but, I'm fine. I will be fine. I'm not drunk," he lied, "and-and look at me. Look at me. Please, this is the only thing that takes the edge off for me. I'm-I'm losing—" Draco stopped talking. The words were spilling forth from his loosened tongue and he was afraid he had revealed too much. He took a deep breath. "I've done it before," he lied again. He knew it would be fine, though. Clearly the whiskey was weak if it hadn't relaxed him the way that alcohol was supposed to.

"Malfoy-"

Draco looked at him, desperate, pleading. Quietly, he muttered, "Please, Potter. Have mercy. I will be fine."

Potter shrugged, defeated. "Do what you want."

Draco glared at him. "I intend to."

Draco lifted the vial of blue potion back up to his lips , the smoke heating, then cooling his skin like steam. He could almost feel the excitement at the prospect of relief from his constant paranoia that pulsed through him. He wiped sweat off of his upper lip, then threw back the potion.

The potion sent a cool, chilling sensation through his body and he shivered. He gave Potter a pompous look. "See?" he snapped. "I'm fi…"

At that moment, Draco's eyes fluttered up into his head and he stumbled back into the table, knocking bottles onto the floor. His knees shuddered and he blinked hard, forcing his eyes to hold eye contact with Potter, fighting the urge for them to roll up. Draco could feel the relaxing sensation rip through him like a torrent. He could hardly feel his limbs. He felt his mouth go slack, his eyes heavy, his breathing, so slow, so slow, too slow.

"Malfoy?" Potter said, carefully, stepping forward.

Draco could control this. Potter was not going to be right. No, he could control this. Using every ounce of his strength, he stepped forward away from the table. "I'm-," he started again. He took a painfully slow breath and watched Potter's face blur up, as though he was peering at him through a rain drop. Draco tried to raise a hand up to gesture and realized that his heavy hand did not respond to his mind's command. He had no control. Draco was stuck with Harry Potter in an Owlery and had completely relinquished control over himself.

Draco's eyes fluttered up again and his knees turned to rubber. "Shit," he slurred out before collapsing back, hitting his head on the table and falling onto his back on the ground into a pile of broken glass vials.

"Oh my God," Potter murmured, stumbling over to Draco and dropping to his knees. "Oh my God."

Draco's eyes were open, but barely. He tried to look up at Potter, but his eyeballs felt too heavy to hold in one place for any length of time.

Draco was passively aware that he no longer felt anxious or paranoid. He knew that he should be highly concerned for his health right now, but being free of worries was a decidedly more enjoyable feeling. Making a mental decision, Draco chose to feel pleased, but no physical or emotional reaction accompanied that decision. He decided, also, that he could be happy right now, except that he felt completely emotionless. He was neutral. A vegetable, really. He felt like he was floating on air, but felt completely heavy at the same time. His body was a burden. What would it feel like if he had no body at all? If he could free his soul from his body and just exist, peacefully, left alone, invisible?

"Malfoy!" Potter's voice sounded far away; tunnel-like. "Malfoy-can you hear me? Oh shit, oh shit."

"Potter, it worked. I'm fine. This always happens. Bugger off," Draco tried to say. What he distantly heard in his slurring voice was, "Pahit wor, 'fine 's'happens, Bugiff." He couldn't speak. He couldn't stand. Potter could take complete advantage of him. This was not good.

"Jesus-I can't understand you!"

"Fuck," he let out, clearly.

"I don't know if you're being an asshole or asking for help! Say something else!"

"You…"

Potter leaned closer, "What are you trying to say?" he asked gently.

Draco used all the strength in his mouth to enunciate. "Fuck. You."

Potter threw his hands in the air and let out an exasperated growl. "Ugh! I should just leave you here. . . but then you'll die. Oh, you stupid moron, Malfoy." Potter back-swatted Draco on the arm. It felt like being hit with a sock. "And, Jesus, Malfoy. You're drooling all over yourself."

He was drooling on himself? That was not good. That was embarrassing. He should feel embarrassed. Draco mentally told himself that he was now embarrassed and should try and do something to rectify that. Normally, when embarrassed, he would just insult the other person, but he was starting to doubt the effect that his silver tongue usually had on Potter. He tried anyway.

"Thas because yur so hansum," he drooled. No-wait-that came out wrong. No-take it back! That did not sound insulting like it had in his head.

Potter gave him a weird look. "What?"

"Fuck," he concluded, wanting to give in to the sleepiness that was now settling around him. Draco's eyes rolled back up in his head.

"No!" Potter shouted. "Stay with me, Malfoy!" Potter lightly smacked Draco across the face several times and shook his shoulders.

Draco felt his face being tapped lightly with a sock and squinted, moaning, "Uh uhh."

Potter looked down at Draco. His breathing was shallow, he was becoming non-responsive, a puddle of drool was forming under his mouth, his normally piercing silver eyes were rolled up in his head. Potter grabbed Draco's hand, which was cold and clammy, and felt for a pulse. The blood pulsed faint and slow.

"Okay, okay," Potter said out loud, more to himself than to Draco. "Okay, we need to get you out of here. We need to get you to a-to a Potions classroom, get you a bezoar or-or something. That'll-yeah. We'll get you a bezoar. Okay, come on!" Potter was on his feet, trying to pull Draco to a standing position. He was huffing and puffing and commenting on Draco's weight. Draco thought this was particularly rude of Potter.

"Come on Malfoy!" Potter struggled, yanking him upright to a seated position.

Draco could feel himself being pulled upright. He needed to make a decision, he decided. Either Potter could leave him here, which, carnally, was what he desired at the moment, and he could, apparently, continue to drool on himself and his pulse, indeed, could slow down to an alarming rate. Or he could try and go with Hero Harry Potter down to the dungeons and get this bezoar that may or may not save his life, if his life was in danger.

"Kay o'kay," he conceded, and fought himself out of the warm, enveloping comfort of the relaxant unto which he had only just begun to yield. Draco forced open his eyes and the painful reality of light and Potter's blurry face met him full force. He tried to lift his hand, humiliation the fuel for his control, and managed to wipe the drool off his slack jaw to the best of his ability.

"Okay Malfoy," Potter commanded, sounding in control, and secretly Draco was glad that someone was. "On the count of three I'm pulling you to your feet. Do your best to stand up, then lean on me and try not to give up standing, whatever you do, stay on your feet. Do you understand?"

Draco tried to give Potter a level, condescending glare, but his loose face just gave him a dumbfounded expression.

"Nod if you understand me."

 _I'm not complete git_ , Draco thought, but he slowly dropped his head down and raised it back up, trying to hold eye contact with Potter while blinking rapidly.

"Okay," Potter said. "One, two, three."

Draco closed his eyes and felt Potter's warm hands pull him to his feet. To stay upright, he tried as hard as he could to focus his strength into his legs, then he loosely wrapped his arm over Potter's shoulder for support. Potter placed one of his arms on Draco's back and the other around Draco's chest in a sort of protective hug. Draco's head lolled to the side and dropped onto Potter's shoulder. His knees began to buckle and he stumbled to the right, but Potter held him up.

"Don't fall," Potter mumbled, a quiet plea. "I've got you, I've got you. Let's go."

....

....

....

The two boys stumbled out of the room and into the stairwell. Every few steps, Malfoy's legs would give out, and he would slide down toward the ground like a rag doll. Harry would yank him upright and shake him, trying to keep him as alert as possible.

The dungeon corridors echoed with their noisy arrival. Apathy had transformed into fear and Harry had stopped caring about getting caught. In fact, it could be positively helpful at a time like this, unless he got caught by Peeves, who would probably just throw things at them and knock them down the stairs. Come to think of it, Filch might do the same thing.

Harry could not believe the events that had transpired over the course of the last two hours. Two hours ago he had been taking part in the banal banter of Hermione and Ron and now he was drunkenly dragging his half-conscious enemy to the dungeons to get a bezoar to save his life. He should have just stayed with his friends.

Malfoy was growing weaker and sleepier. Harry was not sure he was going to make it to the classroom. Granted, Harry was doing most of the walking for both of them, but Malfoy's limited strength supply was drying up quickly.

"L-leave me here," he muttered suddenly, stopping his legs and starting to slide down. "P-please, jus-"

Harry shook him angrily and his blonde hair flew back and forth. "No! Malfoy-we are almost there, it's just down the hall.

Malfoy moaned softly and shook his head to one side, "Mmm . . . can't." He slipped down out of Harry's grasp onto his knees and slumped, curled, against the wall.

"Fuck! Fine! Stay here, er-obviously. I will be right back. I'm coming back! Don't go to sleep," Harry called over his shoulder and ran down the hallway to the potions classroom. He pointed his wand at the door. " _Alohomora!"_ he cried. The door did not budge.

....

....

....

Draco could hear Potter trying Alohomora at the door and knew it wouldn't work. Slytherin was the only house that knew how to get past the spells in the dungeons.

"Salsa Slin," Draco slurred. Potter hadn't heard him. He was too busy was kicking at the Potions door like a maniac.

"Salsa Slin," Draco tried, louder, he felt a pool of drool slide out of his mouth and onto his chin and told himself he was mortified.

Potter looked over at Draco and noticed that he was talking. "What?"

 _Just come over here so you can hear me, you idiot!_ Draco thought. "Salsa Slin."

"What?"

 _Idiot!_ "Saliza."

Potter finally jogged back over to Draco. "What are you saying?"

"Passwor…" Draco moaned.

"Passwor . . .oh! Password? To get in the Potions classroom? Why didn't you tell me?"

Draco actually opened his eyes to give him an even glare.

"What is it?" Potter asked.

"Saliza Slirn"

Potter tried repeating it. "Saliza Slirn?"

Draco took a deep breath. "Salzar Slinn!"

"Salzar . .Sal-Oh! Salazar Slytherin? That's it?"

Draco held his glare on Potter, meaning yes.

Potter put his hand on Draco's shoulder in a soothing gesture, but then yanked it away quickly, horrified. "Jesus, Malfoy."

Draco opened his eyes just enough to see Potter's hand glistening with blood. Shit.

"Your-your head," Potter murmured. "Oh God." He ran back to the door. "Salazar Slytherin!" he yelled, and the door flew open.

Draco couldn't feel any pain in his head. Just fuzziness and an overall lack of feeling. He stared down into his lap and watched as a trickle of blood ran from his face and dripped onto his left hand. He told himself that he should be terrified. He should be in pain.

The blood was pooling in his robes and was apparently coming from his head, from when he fell into the glass bottles in the Owlery. He struggled to reach a hand up to his head, to compress it, to stop the bleeding, but his hand would not cooperate. His field of vision began to look like red gel. It was growing steadily darker. He blinked hard, confused when one tear forced its way out of his drug-addled body, and then everything went black.

....

....

....

Harry tore through the classroom, knocking into a desk and stumbling over a cluster of chairs. He ran to the back cabinet. "Alohomora!" he yelled, and surprisingly, the cabinet doors flung open. He grabbed the jar marked "Bezoars," ripped the lid off and threw it down. He reached in and grabbed one bean-sized bezoar, turned quickly, and ran from the room, his robes billowing, fan-like, behind him.

He flew down the castle hallway to where Malfoy was slumped, unconscious, in a pool of blood against the wall. The blood had accumulated quickly and Harry briefly thought it might be best to stop the bleeding before administering the bezoar, but shoved the bezoar in Malfoy's mouth anyway.

"Chew!" Harry commanded, but Malfoy's mouth hung, listlessly, his tongue lolling to the side. "Chew, chew! Come on, Malfoy," he pleaded, as he ripped off the sleeve of his own robe and tried to locate the source of bleeding.

Harry gently, but firmly, tilted Malfoy's head forward to inspect the top of his scalp. He found a long, jagged gash, out of which blood was freely flowing. Harry swore softly and tried to tie his robe sleeve around Malfoy's blood-dyed blonde hair to compress the wound. He then tilted Draco's head back and looked in his mouth. The bezoar was still sitting there on his tongue. "Please chew you idiot!" Harry cried desperately. "Draco-chew!"

....

....

....

Draco's eyes flitted open. He saw Potter's frantic face looming overhead. "Chew!" The command sounded like it was coming from underwater. "Draco-you have to chew!"

_Draco?_

Draco realized it was now or never. He remotely noticed the lump in his mouth and figure this was the bezoar. Lazily, he brought his teeth together, then gave up and just tried to swallow it whole. He felt the lump move down his throat and then his mouth was aggressively forced open with fingers.

"You did it, thank God," Potter muttered, breathing out a sigh of relief. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at Draco's head. " _Episkey,"_ he tried, doubtful.

Draco felt a cooling sensation on the top of his head. At the same time, his entire body began buzzing, hot and irritated. He groaned miserably from his heap on the ground.

"Malfoy? Malfoy!" Potter demanded. The grating voice sent pin pricks through Draco's entire body.

"What?" Draco rasped.

"Are you okay?" Potter was peering into his eyes like a nervous mother, his green eyes glinting in the torchlight.

Draco stared back at him. His body felt itchy and highly agitated and his skin ached. "Do I look okay to you?" Draco spat, the words coming out clearly. Potter's entire presence irritated him, despite Potter having just saved his life.

"So-you-the potions worn off?" Potter asked.

"I-" Draco began and moaned again, dropping his head into his bloodstained hands. "Sorry," he whispered, ashamed.

Potter reached a hand toward Draco's shoulder. "It's okay." He placed his hand on Draco's shoulder and the blonde jerked away, out of his touch.

"DON'T _touch_ me!" he snarled, his hands muffling the words.

Potter frowned. "Fine."

Draco peered up from his hands and squinted. "Sorry-I just, _please_ don't touch me. It-it bloody hurts."

"Okay," said Potter. He stared at Draco in silence. The evening's events had seemingly sobered him. "Erm-Malfoy?"

Draco didn't say anything. His body appeared to tense at the sound of Potter's voice.

"You," he continued, faltering. "You lost a lot of blood. You might have a concussion. I think you should go see Madame-"

"Can you get me a sobering potion?" Draco mumbled into his arm, his head still down.

"Uh, yeah, I can-sure," Potter agreed and tentatively left Draco to go back to the Potions closet.

"And a hangover potion if they have that?"

Potter turned back, "Uh, if they have it, yeah."

....

....

....

Harry wandered back to the Potions classroom, trying to divulge a plan for what to do next. Did Malfoy need to go to the infirmary ? At least have his head checked? And why on earth was Harry still helping him after Malfoy cursed him, stole his alcohol, ignored his advice like a moron and put himself in a near-death situation? Harry despised the git. Why was he being so nice to him? No doubt, Malfoy was going to turn around and spit in Harry's face the next chance he got. He probably wouldn't even say 'thank you.' 'Sorry,' was closest thing to appreciation that Harry would receive for this.

And yet, he found himself opening the closet of the Potions classroom and locating the sobering agent. There did not seem to be a hangover potion in the classroom. Harry was surprised even to find the former in the closet.

He grabbed a vial off of a shelf and portioned a dose of the sobering agent into the vial. Harry ambled back to where Malfoy had collapsed on the floor, looking like the victim of a gruesome murder.

"Here," Harry offered, holding the vial out to Malfoy. Malfoy looked up, wincing, and took the potion. "They didn't have a hangover potion."

....

....

....

Draco looked at the bottle skeptically, knowing that if he felt terrible now, in a minute he was about to feel a whole lot worse.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the effects, and threw the potion back in one shot. Potter watched as Draco dropped his head back in his hands. "Uhhhn," he moaned miserably. "God. Why?"

Draco was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he was covered in blood, in drool, and in spilled alcohol, on the floor of the dungeons, his head cracked open from his idiotic fall and Harry Perfect Potter was staring at him with a scrutinizing look of mock concern.

"Come on," Potter said gently, tugging at Draco's sleeve to help him stand up. Draco yanked his arm back and flashed a death glare at him.

"I can get along fine myself, thanks," he growled and pushed himself up to stand, using the wall. "I'm not your charity case." His stomach lurched and his eyes were burning and bleary. His head was pounding to the rhythm of his heart, each beat bringing more pain. Dizziness enveloped him and his vision started going black. He stumbled against the wall and held himself in place, head hanging down, breathing deeply.

Potter approached him again.

"Do. Not. Put. Your. Hands. On. Me. Potter." Draco gasped out, through clenched teeth.

'Fine, Malfoy! Fine!" Potter yelled. Draco winced. "But you need to walk yourself up to the hospital ward _now."_

"Don't," he breathed heavily, vertigo reeling in his head, "get your knickers in a twist, Potter. I am. I'm going. In a minute-" he lurched forward again, catching himself on the wall.

Potter watched Draco with his arms crossed.

Draco made no motion of moving. Clearly, standing up was going to be a World Cup challenge.

Potter exhaled, annoyed. "This is ridiculous. You're wasting time. You're still losing blood."

Draco's eyes were closed and his head was hanging. "Mind-"

"No! This is my business now, Malfoy! Stop being an idiot-you've done that enough tonight. Merlin!" Potter mumbled a lightening charm. "Now shut up. I'm picking you up and taking you to Madame Pomfrey. If you say anything else to annoy me, I'll put Silencio on you, I swear."

Draco shut up and didn't put up a fight as Potter lifted him up from behind, cradling the heap of wizard and bloody robes in his arms. Defeated, disgusted, Draco moaned the entire way to the hospital wing until he finally gave in to the dizzying pull of sleep.

....

....

....

Harry's robes were now soaked through with Malfoy's blood. He was missing a sleeve that was now haphazardly tied to Malfoy's head, its collection of blood meager, as it continued to trickle down the back of Malfoy's skull.

Harry carried Malfoy up the steps and into the hospital wing, where Madame Pomfrey stood, horrified, for a brief second before jumping onto Malfoy in a panic.

"What happened?" she asked, as she began to prepare treatments.

"He-I, I'm fine, but Malfoy fell and hit his head," Harry offered, leaving out critical details of the night. "It was an accident," he added, again, not sure why.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," she said as busied herself, mending Malfoy's wounds.

"He's lost a lot of blood," Harry added, unnecessarily.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, I can see that," she murmured. Harry didn't budge. She stopped and looked at him pointedly. "Thank you for bringing him here. He will be fine. Now go clean yourself up and get some sleep," she added.

Harry nodded and looked once more at Malfoy, who looked as if he had finally fallen asleep. His mouth hung open and he was emitting light snores.

Harry meandered through the hallways in a daze, soaked in Malfoy's blood and sleeveless. He followed the dripping trail of blood through the hallways and whispered a cleansing spell to cover his and Malfoy's path.

The blood trail wound all the way up the steps in the West Tower to the old Owlery where the whole debacle had begun. Harry tentatively opened the door, feeling like he was walking into a crime scene. He whispered a few cleaning spells around the room and extinguished Malfoy's cauldron fire. He lifted his messenger bag, bottles still clinking in the burlap sack he had stuffed inside. Giving the room a once over, Harry noticed Malfoy's wand sitting on the Potions table. Rolling his eyes, he picked it up, placed it in his pocket beside his own, and headed back to Gryffindor Tower.


	2. Chapter 2

"Heavens!" The Fat Lady gasped when she saw Harry.

"Moonstone Dust," Harry muttered the password. The portrait frowned, but opened for him and he stepped inside, saying a silent prayer that everyone would be asleep.

He crept quietly through the corridor and into the Gryffindor Common Room, only to be greeted by Hermione and Ron snogging passionately on the couch. He held his breath and tried to tiptoe past them.

Hermione opened her eyes and froze, wide-eyed on Harry.

"Urrr," she gurgled into Ron's mouth.

Ron opened his eyes and looked at her. "What is it, Herm?" he asked.

"Harry," she said slowly and carefully, pulling her lips away from Ron's. Ron whipped his head around.

"Jesus, mate!" he choked out. "What happened to you?"

"Er-" Harry began, not really sure how he was going to end that sentence.

Hermione jumped up and lunged towards him. Instinctively, Harry backed away. "Harry!" she demanded. "What's going on? Are you hurt? You need to go see Madame Pomfrey!" Hermione's calm demeanor was quickly growing hysterical.

Harry held his hands up in defense. "No! Er-no, Hermione. I'm fine. This-this is not-" he gestured to his robes, "from me. Well, except for this," he pointed at the missing sleeve.

"Oh thank goodness, Harry!"

"Yeah, mate," Ron chimed in, "you near gave us a heart attack."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, I'm going to go wash up."

"Here," Hermione offered, lifting Harry's bag. "Let us help you. I can mend that sleeve for you with a Stitching Charm," she smiled.

Harry froze. "You know, how about in the morning?" he asked, carefully taking his bag back. "I've had a . . . really rough night."

Hermione and Ron nodded as Harry hefted the bag back onto his shoulder. The bottles in the bag clinked and sloshed loudly. Harry tried to cough over the sound.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "What's in your bag, Harry?"

"Me? Bag? Er- nothing, well-for Potions, it's for extra cr—" he realized who he was lying to and that it was about school work and knew he was digging his own grave. "For Dumbledore! Um, for the Occlumency, for Dumbledore." Harry averted his eyes. He was a terrible liar.

Ron stepped closer. "You're a terrible liar, Harry," he confirmed and cocked his head to the side.

Hermione wrinkled her nose, "And you smell . . oh . ." her eyes widened with realization. "Harry Potter!" She grabbed at his bag. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

Ron raised his eyebrows and looked from Hermione to Harry.

"Uh, what? No!" Harry protested, feebly, as he made a weak attempt to shield his bag from her. She dug in anyway and pulled out a bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky.

Ron whistled, his eyebrows still far above where they should be.

"Nice," Hermione commented. "Lovely, Harry. Were you planning on inviting anyone to your party or were you just building up a sneak-away stash?"

Harry flushed deep red. "I just-"

Ron laughed. "No need to explain, Harry. Just, you know," he leaned in so Hermione couldn't hear, "let me in on, next time, eh?" Hermione slapped Ron on the arm.

"Eh, yeah Ron, okay . . ." Harry tried to dodge Hermione's next question and step around his friends.

"Harry! Get back here! I'm not waiting until tomorrow for some story you can rehearse all night and tweak to perfection by morning. I want the truth. Now."

"Lighten up, Herm!" Ron defended Harry.

"Ron! He's covered in blood! He's drunk! He said he was off visiting Dobby! _Something_ happened, Ron. Maybe it _is_ Harry's blood, for all we know-he may not be in his right mind."

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes and exhaled deeply instead. "I'm in my right mind, Hermione. I'm fine. Yes, I drank earlier. No, I'm not really drunk now. I saw someone have a fall and carried them to Madame Pomfrey's. They're fine, I'm fine. Now, can I please just go take a shower?"

Hermione squinted her eyes as if to ascertain the truth from Harry's words. "You reek." She wrinkled her nose again and stepped back. "Who was it?"

"No one you know."

"You're lying."

"Well, when you see someone all patched up tomorrow, I'm sure you'll put two and two together." He stepped past her and muttered, "You always do."

Hermione put her hands on her hips. "What's that supposed to mean?" she called after him.

"It means exactly what it means," Harry said, evenly. "Goodnight, Ron. Goodnight, Hermione."

"Goodnight Harry," Ron replied, jovially. Hermione just glared.

As Harry loped off to his dorm room, he could hear Hermione still clipping away, "Can you imagine? The nerve!"

Harry stepped in front of his mirror and repressed a horrified gasp. He looked like hell. No, he looked worse. His eyes were bloodshot, his robes, bloody. Malfoy's blood was on his chin, his shoulders, his hands, his hair. His face was gaunt, and his hands were twitchy from the Body-Bind Curse. The sleeve ripped off of his robe looked almost comical, in a Halloween sort of way. He looked so awful that it looked intentional. He didn't, however, look nearly as bad as Malfoy had in the hallway of the dungeons. That was an image that would be etched into his mind forever.

Harry carefully peeled off the soiled robes and stepped into the hot, steamy shower. The near-scalding blast of water was the heaven to his current state of hell, washing him clean and burning off the acrid taint of Malfoy, dried on his skin. He closed his eyes and let the water wash over his face.

....

....

....

Light poured in through a wide, bay window. There were no windows in the dungeons. Draco blinked hard and his sticky eyes widened in horror as he realized he was in a hospital bed. His head was pounding from what felt like a hangover, but there was a sharp burning throb on his skull. He felt his head and paused. Something was wrong. His hair. In the middle of his skull where there was supposed to be a soft, white-blonde part, Draco felt tufts of fuzzy, buzzed hair give way to a bald spot and a bumpy, raised, stinging wound.

The blood drained from Draco's face as he reached instinctively for his bedside mirror. Grasping at thin air, he remembered that this was not his bedside. Despite the incredible pain he felt, Draco jumped out of bed and crossed the room to look in a full-length mirror. He wheeled it to face him and gasped.

"No . . ." he moaned at his reflection.

His reflection, looking equally pissed, sneered back at him, and an angry, raised, jagged scar ran across a shaved out bald spot in the middle of his crowning glory. He wore a white, cheap hospital gown. Dark, purplish circles shadowed his dead-looking eyes.

"What did you expect?" his reflection, usually so complimentary, retorted nastily.

"I-I don't remember. . ." Draco began. He paused, thinking. He recalled his plans to brew stores of the Draught of Peace last night. He couldn't remember anything else.

"No? Nothing, Scarhead?" his reflection smirked.

Scarhead. _Scarhead!_

Images began to flash through Draco's mind like a spliced up pensieve. The owlery. Potter. Alcohol. Lots of alcohol.

And for the first time since the Owlery, Draco's hands began their favorite fallback tremor. What had he done? Oh, God. His hair.

Draco reached instinctively for his wand, which he always kept in the pocket of his school robes and found only the smooth, scratchy surface of a cheap hospital gown. Where were his robes? Where was his wand?

Madame Pomfrey seemed to sense that he was awake and strolled purposefully into the room. "Mister Malfoy!" she scolded. "Back in bed!"

"Where are my robes?" he demanded coldly. "And what in bloody hell did you do to my h-hair?" His voice cracked.

"Shaved it to treat your fractured skull and concussion, Mr. Malfoy. Your robes are in the laundry. Now get back in bed."

"My wand was in my robe pockets!"

Madame Pomfrey frowned and stepped up towards him threateningly. "I assure you, Mr. Malfoy, you were dropped off here without a wand. Now lie down. Your body cannot handle any excitement right now."

"I'm leaving. I need my wand," Draco huffed, testily. "I need to fix this-this catastrophe that-!" he gestured wildly at his head, grabbing a handful of matted blonde hair. "You!"

Madame Pomfrey raised her eyebrows, coolly. "Perhaps you haven't realized, Mr. Malfoy, but you are lucky- _very_ lucky to be alive right now. Considering."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "I bumped my head," he commented, dismissively. "Not a big deal."

Madame Pomfrey narrowed her eyes right back. "I'm not sure what game you and Mr. Potter think you're playing at, but I am licensed by the Medical Magic Bureau and I take my job very seriously. You, Draco Malfoy, did more than just bump your head."

Draco stared, confused. Had Potter told on him? He didn't think so, but . . . "I'm quite sure I don't know what you're insinuating."

"And I'm quite sure you do," she remarked, shaking her head. "I test the blood of my patients. Especially when they are pouring blood from their head, foaming at the mouth and being carried to my office by a school rival." She continued to challenge him.

Draco knew he was losing but refused to step down. "So?" he retorted.

"Alcohol, bezoar juice, sobering agent and Draught of Peace," she stated. "And all within two hours of arriving. Are you mad?"

Draco twisted his mouth up to insult her, then doubled over with pain as if on cue. He widened his eyes in helpless fear, bent over, hands balled into white-knuckled fists.

"Acute Potion Poisoning, Mr. Malfoy. An overdose. A cracked skull and a concussion. Get. Back. In. Bed. Your recovery is not over."

Draco whimpered as pain ripped through his stomach. He staggered back to bed, angry and mortified.

"Just wait until Professor Dumbledore hears about this," she muttered. "It's a good thing Harry Potter was there to give you a bezoar. You wouldn't be here if he hadn't thought of it."

Draco huffed and crossed his arms insolently. Perfect Harry Potter. Harry the Hero. It bothered him enough that Harry saved lives for fun. It completely enraged him that he was now in Potter's debt. "Lucky me," he drawled, frowning.

....

....

....

Harry woke up early, from restless dreams of white blonde hair and thick pools of blood.

Harry headed down to breakfast alone, not wanting to face Ron and Hermione just yet. They, however, were already awake and at the Gryffindor breakfast table waiting for him.

He made his way, regretfully, over to the table and sat down next to Ron, who was now between Harry and Hermione. Harry was wearing an old set of robes that were slightly shabby and a little too short on him. He hadn't had it in him to mend his good robes the previous night..

Hermione kept her head forward. "Harry," she nodded, cordially. Harry looked over at her.

"Hi," he mumbled, biting into his toast.

"Hi, Harry," Ron said. Apparently Harry was no longer in his good graces.

"Hi, Ron."

Ron glanced at Hermione and then at Harry and then back down to his toast, of which he took another bite. The three of them carried on this way for several more minutes until Ron broke the silence.

"Uh, Harry," he began.

"Yes, Ron?"

"Well, er-Hermione and I were kind of thinking you'd go into a little more detail about your, uh, night, last night," he suggested, hopefully. "You know, now that you've had some sleep and a shower and what-not."

Hermione continued to stare forward.

"Were you?" Harry remarked, neutrally. He bit into his toast.

Ron cleared his throat, a little aggressively. "Uh, yeah, mate. We were."

Harry took a deep breath and turned to face them. "Look," he began. "I basically told you everything last night. What exactly do you want to know without me having to relive it?" Harry threw in that last bit to try and guilt his friends out of bothering him. It didn't work.

Hermione spun to face him, angrily. "Like _why?_ Like _who?_ Like what, where, _how?_ "

"And, why we weren't there," Ron added quietly.

"Okay. I was just-look. I've just been really stressed lately and-"

Hermione cut him off. "We're all stressed, Harry," she said quietly.

Harry looked down at his breakfast. "Yes, I know that. I just, got it in my mind that I needed something to help me just-I don't know. Haven't you ever just wanted to take a break from your own mind? Just felt stuck inside yourself? I don't know," Harry picked a crumb off of his toast and severed it with his thumbnail. "Anyway, that's why I went to see Dobby. I wanted to try Firewhisky and just, see-I don't know. I was curious."

"Okay, Harry," Hermione said, sadly, indicating that it was not okay. "I wish you would have told us that you were feeling that way."

Harry stayed quiet for a moment. "I wish I'd felt like I could have."

Ron gave him a strange look. "Why wouldn't you?"

Harry shrugged and severed his crumb into fourths.

"You can come to us for anything, Harry, you know that," Hermione added.

Harry looked up suddenly. "Forget it, it's not a big deal." He wanted out of this conversation.

"Yes it is!" Hermione shouted.

Harry dropped his toast on his plate. "Look, look. It's not like- don't think I'm being needy, or jealous or anything but. You guys," he gestured to his friends, "you have, you know, each other now. Which is a _good_ thing. And I'm _happy_ for you. But when you're having your, you know, conversations and stuff, it just isn't appropriate for me to mope about feeling sorry for myself. I kind of need to just work some things out on my own."

"By drinking yourself into an oblivion?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, maybe!" Harry shouted, defensively. He stood up and grabbed his bag. "I don't want to fight with you guys, okay?" His voice softened. "I never did anything to intentionally hurt either of you. Please-just, cut me a break." He dropped his hands at his sides helplessly.

"I know," Hermione murmured. "We're just worried about you, Harry."

"I know," he replied.

Ron nodded. "I mean, I don't have a problem with it or anything, Harry. But it was sort of out of character, a bit, I think."

"I know," he repeated. "Sorry I scared you," he added.

"Sorry we haven't been there for you, Harry," Hermione said in a small voice.

Harry turned back to her. "What? No! You have! That's-that's not what I-"

"Hermione's right, Harry," Ron said. "We've been pretty wrapped up in ourselves."

"What? No!" Harry lied. "Well, you're supposed to be! Er-not that you are, but if you _were_ it'd be okay! I-look!" he sighed. "It's not that serious. I'm fine. Really, truly. It was just a weird night, okay?"

Ron nodded. "That's what I told her, Harry, but she wouldn't listen."

Hermione glared at him. "I do _so_ listen, Ron! And you said it, too! It was out of character."

"Yes, out of character, but not like _murder_ out of character. He wanted to get drunk, I get it. It's not unheard of."

"For Harry it is!"

"Not completely, Herm."

"Like this it is, Ron!"

"He's had alcohol before Hermione! Give him a break."

"But you just heard him say it, Ron. That we're too wrapped up in ourselves and he didn't want to bother us with his problems! He feels that nobody's listening . . . to . . . Harry?"

But Harry was gone.

Concern, coupled with morbid curiosity, attracted Harry to the medical wing. He figured Malfoy would be fine...but what if he wasn't? What if the bezoar hadn't actually worked? What if he had lost too much blood? What if Harry had messed up some other way in a critical moment and had permanently disabled him?

The more he thought about what could have actually gone wrong, the faster Harry walked. He had confidence in Madame Pomfrey, but still.

Plus, he had Malfoy's wand.

Harry strode quickly through hallways to the hospital wing and up to the door.

"Uh, Madame Pomfrey?" he called tentatively.

There was no answer. Harry shrugged and crept inside to find Malfoy.

Malfoy was in the first ward, lying neatly on the bed, hands folded over his stomach. He didn't look asleep, he looked like he was resting in a grave. Or faking. A pillow was covering the top of his head, which seemed like an odd way to fall asleep.

Harry crept closer. "Malfoy?" he whispered. Malfoy stayed silent. Which, judging by the amount of moaning and groaning he did last night whenever his sleep was disturbed, confirmed that he was likely pretending.

Harry noticed his breathing sounded normal again, and, again, not like he was asleep.

"Malfoy, I know you're awake."

He stayed silent.

"I've got your wand. I know you're awake."

A pause. "I'm not," he replied, eyes still closed. "Leave my wand and go."

Harry stared at him for a moment and remembered why he hated him in the first place.

"No," he stated, simply.

Malfoy's eyes flew open with rage. "Leave it and go," he growled, teeth clenched.

Harry strolled casually toward Malfoy. "Also," he added, "I wanted to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine, Potter," Malfoy remarked, dropping his gaze.

"Well," Harry continued, "You said that last night, too. Right before you collapsed."

Malfoy sighed. "What do you want me to say? I wasn't in my right mind last night, obviously. I'm here, I'm breathing, I'm fine," and, again, he doubled over in pain, betraying his story.

Malfoy winced, grabbing his stomach, staying flat on his back. He brought his knees up to his chest and snarled, "Get. Out!"

Harry turned to leave.

"And leave. My wand," gasped Malfoy.

Harry turned back to Malfoy, but was caught off guard by Madame Pomfrey, striding up to Malfoy's bed.

"Mr. Malfoy!" she scolded. "I _told_ you, to keep your head elevated!"

Malfoy looked pleadingly at the ceiling. "Please, no," he murmured, desperate.

Madame Pomfrey took the pillow off his head, lifted his head and propped it up on the pillow. The bloody, bald gash caught Harry's attention.

"Wow," Harry breathed. "It looks-"

"Go ahead and laugh, Potter. I know the temptation is too hard for you to resist."

"I-what? Are you serious? This isn't funny. Why would you think I would laugh?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Because , Potter, you have a sick sense of humor."

"No," Harry gestured towards him. "That's you. And anyway, I was there last night. I know what happened."

Malfoy shot him a warning look and slightly shook his head, as if telling him to stay quiet.

Madame Pomfrey heard him, too. "Yes, Potter. What did happen? Mr. Malfoy, here, seems to be set against giving me the whole story. And, if we don't get the whole story here, Professor Dumbledore will have to get involved."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at the mention of the Headmaster.

"Er-" Harry jumped in. "Malfoy just had a bad fall, Madame Pomfrey. Hit his head on some glass. That's all, that's the whole story."

She looked at Malfoy. He sighed. "She tested my blood. Seems to think its incongruous findings have something to do with last night's unfortunate events."

"You have Acute Potion Poisoning, Mr. Malfoy. The fractured skull was easily treatable. The damage you did to your organs is not such a quick fix. And the longer we beat around the bush, the longer it will take to treat you."

Malfoy scowled and crossed his arms.

"Potter," she said. "I assume you had the sense to give him a bezoar?"

Harry looked at Malfoy, unsure of whether to lie or be honest. Malfoy frowned and flipped his wrist in the air, indicating Harry to carry on. "Yes ma'am," he mumbled.

"Am I to assume that alcohol was the first poison ingested?"

Harry looked at Malfoy, again. He was staring out the window. It seemed he was not going to answer any of these questions. "Er-I, I think so," he offered, weakly.

"How much did he have?"

Harry waited again for Malfoy to speak on his own behalf, but he remained silent, content to let Harry answer all the embarrassing questions for him. Harry sighed. "Uh, a bottle of Firewhisky. Basically."

She made a note. "I see. And then, after this, Draco took the Draught of Peace potion?"

"Yes ma'am." Why had he come here?

She shook her head and made a note. "Mr. Malfoy," she exhaled, frustrated. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to mix alcohol and the Draught of Peace? Or alcohol with any potion, let alone a relaxant . . . How dangerous it is?"

Malfoy continued to stare out the window, arms crossed. "Someone might have mentioned, yeah."

"And yet, you chose to do it anyway."

He remained silent, the sunlight casting dark shadows on his gaunt, pale face.

"And yet, you chose to do it anyway, Mr. Malfoy?"

His eyes narrowed. "Obviously," he hissed.

She clucked, disapprovingly. "Why would you choose to mix alcohol and a powerful relaxant when you knowingly-"

"I'm quite convinced the 'why' of last night isn't any of your concern," he snapped. You're treating me for an overdose. You know what I took. This isn't group therapy."

"And then," she continued on, "you self-administered a sobering agent so that I would not be asking you these very questions."

"What's your point?" he asked coldly. "Since you seem to have it all-," he moaned briefly, trying to control the pain in his stomach. "Figured out," he choked.

She turned back to Harry. "A full vial was it?" She returned to her clipboard.

"Yes ma'am. Of-of both potions."

She nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Potter. Something Mr. Malfoy should be saying to you right now, as your quick thinking saved his life last night. Twice. And now, maybe a third time." She turned to face Malfoy. "I don't think you realize the gravity of the situation. Now or yesterday. You are not cured, not free to go. Fighting answering my questions and being an oppositional patient will only make your recovery longer, riskier and less likely."

Malfoy looked at the floor. "Less likely?" he repeated quietly.

"Your internal organs are injured. Your immune defenses are down. Any sort of poison, potion, even certain foods, could kill you at this point, until you are fully healed. Your liver took a hard hit last night."

"It was scary," Harry admitted quietly.

Malfoy swallowed hard and rolled his eyes. "Who asked you?"

"No one," Harry muttered.

"Just forget it, Potter. Add another notch to your hero belt, give me my sodding wand and leave."

Harry glared at him. He felt sick. A voice in his head was saying _I told you so!_

"Whatever," Harry muttered. "Figures." He tossed Malfoy's wand unceremoniously at the foot of the bed and turned to leave.

Malfoy stared at him as he strode out of the room. "What figures?" Harry heard him ask.

Harry continued walking. "Nothing," he muttered.

Harry balled his hands up into fists and remembered what Malfoy had told him about being a hero and how predictable he was-how it was going to be what killed him. Well, he had certainly been the predictable hero last night. And right now.

Harry gritted his teeth as he realized that Malfoy was equally as predictable. Of _course_ he was going to act like a selfish infant.

Without realizing what he was doing, Harry spun back around toward the infirmary and marched angrily back to Malfoy's bed. Malfoy jumped, startled, when he saw him.

"Potter, I said-"

"You know what?" Harry was shouting. "You say _I'm_ predictable? Me? Really? The whole way here I knew you'd sit perched up on your stupid little bed with your nose in the air and act like an unappreciative prat! Straight of a children's book. A horror novel, really. Who acts like that? I mean, Jesus, Malfoy! Do you think last night was fun for me? Clearly, I was having a time of it from the get-go, you fucking paralyze me, steal from me, ignore sound advice and attempt suicide, and I have to drag your drunk arse all over the sodding castle because _you didn't get it_ and you were _helpless,_ Malfoy. Pathetic! And you did it to yourself."

"I-"

"No. Shut up. I don't even know-maybe you're embarrassed or something, as you _should_ be, because pathetic doesn't really begin to describe it but-"

"FUCK you! Get OUT!"

"Grow UP! You're not twelve years old anymore! Actions have consequences."

"Right-because YOU never do anything wrong-"

Harry threw his arms down and looked to heaven, " _How_ is this about me? Another deflection, Malfoy? Because that's what you're best at."

"YOU don't know anything about ME. How _dare_ you pretend to-"

"Funny!" Harry laughed, a grim smile on his face in stark opposition to his enraged eyes. "You seemed to have no problem spilling your guts to me while I was in a vegetative state last night! _Anything_ to get the last word in, right? You're sick, you know that? Deranged."

"Then stay away from me," Malfoy said oddly. "Because I'm also dangerous."

Harry laughed. "You? Yeah, right. You're a sad coward."

Malfoy sat up in his bed and swung his legs around to stand. There was fire in his eyes. "Say it again," he commanded slowly, reaching for his wand.

Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't play by your rules. And I suppose you know that I wouldn't hex an injured person. But you'll have no qualms about attacking me when you know I won't do anything back to you."

Malfoy sneered.

"Like I said," Harry threw out, casually. "Predictable coward."

Malfoy thrust his wand toward Harry, then retracted, clutching his stomach in pain. He sank to his knees in his white medical gown, groaning. His shoulders were shuddering and he began to heave.

"Shit," Harry said, grabbing a nearby dustbin and thrusting it under Malfoy's mouth as he began to vomit blood. "Shit," Harry said again, looking around for Madame Pomfrey. "I-sorry. I shouldn't have come back here."

Malfoy glanced up at him through his white eyelashes. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat and his nose and eyes were watery and red. "Do you think so?"

Malfoy heaved again.

Harry started to panic. "Where did she go? Shit! I'm sorry, Malfoy. Fuck."

"Stop apologizing." Malfoy's voice was gravelly. "Contrary to popular Gryffindor belief, the world does not actually revolve around you. I," he stopped and took a shaky breath, trying to regain control. "I can take some responsibility, you know."

"Well," Harry said, and paused. "Well, good. You should."

Malfoy clutched his stomach and curled into himself. "Now," he stated calmly, his eyes were closed in pain. "Go get Madame Pomfrey and for the love of Merlin, just leave."

"Okay," Harry agreed and ran through the infirmary shouting, "Madame Pomfrey!" until the older woman emerged from a closet with an armful of potions.

"What is it, Mr. Potter?"

"Malfoy's vomiting blood."

Her eyes widened, and she set the potions down quickly. "Thank you," she called to him as she ran off to help Malfoy.

Harry stepped out of the infirmary in a daze. He noticed that his hands and knees were shaking and wondered whether or not it was a contagious condition. Could this have been the fourth time in the past day that Harry had saved Malfoy's life? Well, no, he decided. Not if he was the cause. Though, he supposed, he was the cause of this whole debacle in the first place-barging into Malfoy's private time with five bottles of whiskey. Then again, Dobby could be considered equally as responsible as Harry, as could Old Ogden himself.

Malfoy had been right. Harry needed to stop blaming himself and trying to control everything. He'd been so used to everything-truly, the fate of the world-resting on his shoulders, it had become instinct to second guess his every move and ponder the condition of the world in ultimate dimensions-dimensions where he had made a different choice or, more accurately, the _right_ choice. For instance, if he had taken Occlumency seriously the first time, his godfather would still be alive. Malfoy's father, on the other hand, would not be in Azkaban. If Harry had not tried to be the wholesome Hero and grab the Triwizard cup with Cedric Diggory, it was possible, albeit unlikely, that Cedric would still be alive.

Harry had sought a mental break the day before, and had ended up nearer a mental breakdown and in the company of a deranged prat for more time than he would care to admit.

He walked down the hallway away from the infirmary and headed outside, toward the lake. The sky was quickly becoming dark. A gray haze had descended upon Hogwarts, causing a fog to settle the tops of the towers. The air was misty and Harry felt his T-shirt begin to dampen against his skin. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling uncomfortably hot and cold in the early October humidity. His glasses quickly collected drops of mist and the grounds looked as though they were refracted light reflections in a crystal ball.

Harry stomped over the soggy grounds until he came to the muddy edge of the lake. Finding a mossy, wet, overturned log, Harry collapsed down in exhaustion. Dampness was coming through the seat of his trousers, but he didn't mind. The all-encompassing moisture was helping to clear his mind as well as shroud him from reality. He stared, glassy-eyed, at the lake as a late-onset headache began to creep in.

Harry dropped his head down to look at a mossy rock and rubbed his temples absentmindedly. He felt depressed, yes, but that was nothing new. On top of the depression he had been feeling since Sirius died, he now felt confused. And stuck. And guilty, for some reason.

Before that idiot had swallowed the potion last night, he acknowledged that he knew it could kill him. Was he simply placating Harry? Or was the overdose intentional? Harry remembered the helpless look on Malfoy's face, as denial changed to fear and he collapsed down. No, he did not think it was intentional, or, had it been intentional, Malfoy quickly realized his mistake.

_Well, that solves one problem for you,_ Harry remembered the words. Did Malfoy think that Harry wanted him dead? _Had_ Harry wanted him dead? He thought about his train ride to Hogwarts a few weeks earlier. Considering the cruel way that Malfoy had stomped on his face, listened to the sickening crunch of bones under his boot and watched the flow of blood from Harry's nose and then thrown a contemptuous, remorseless look and covered the Body-Bound Harry with his Invisibility Cloak, well, wishing death upon the bastard seemed an appropriate reaction.

Also, Malfoy was up to something. Something _serious_ , something big, something that Harry didn't think he could handle. It was well known that his father, Lucius Malfoy, was a Death Eater and Voldemort's right-hand man. It was also commonly accepted that students in the Slytherin house, frequently children of Death Eaters, were trained from a young age to follow in their parent's footsteps. It was no secret that Malfoy harbored strong anti-Muggle and anti-"Mudblood" sentiments and that he was in favor of the opinion of the Dark Lord. Could Malfoy have received his Dark Mark from Voldemort over the summer? He was young, yes, but his father _was_ Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy certainly _seemed_ preoccupied with matters outside of Hogwarts. He seemed to be simply existing in classes, when he bothered to show up at all, and the rest of the time he was missing from the Great Hall during meals, or hastily striding off by himself, looking anxious and worn. Instead of picking fights with Harry like he used to, Malfoy threw him suspicious glares and tried to avoid him, like the wrong side of the magnet.

Except last night. Last night, Malfoy, in a way, let Harry stay. Sure, he hexed him into paralysis, but he let him stay. He told him things. In a roundabout way, yes, but he was honest.. Harry believed that Malfoy's concoction of the Draught of Peace was simply for personal use. He didn't think that any of Malfoy's secrets were hiding up in the Owlery last night, besides Malfoy himself, Malfoy's potion and Malfoy's paranoia.

....

....

....

Draco's paranoia returned hours later in full swing. As the last beams of daylight sunk below the horizon, the symptoms joined the darkness, one by one. It started with the shaking hands, then an obsession with time, then he began sweating and taking shallow, unsatisfying breaths. After twenty minutes of controlled hyperventilating, Draco's heart began pounding in his chest. He stared out the window at the blackness, panting desperately. Occasionally, he would recoil in pain, his eyes watering up in sheer agony as his pitiful moans traveled down the corridor. He didn't like to hear the sound of his own pathetic crying, but listening, detached, gave his brain at least something on which to focus. Madame Pomfrey still had not healed him fully and he was lying in the hospital bed, useless.

Draco didn't have the luxury of time to be lounging uselessly in a hospital ward. He had too much to do and time was of the essence. Time was the difference between life and death, and if news of his injury reached his parents, or worse, The Dark Lord, it could mean pitiful failure for Draco and his family before he'd even been given a chance to prove himself. The Dark Lord was not known for his patience. Except, perhaps, in killing Harry Potter, in which he seemed to have no problem toiling about, whiling away the hours, days, _years_ until he reached some metaphorically significant moment in which the metaphor always seemed to suit Potter more than it did Him. If all it took for the Dark Lord's inevitable rise to power was the defeat of a four-eyed schoolboy, why couldn't someone like Draco just _Avada Kedavra_ the git in Potions or something? Then all of this pointless time-wasting and unnecessary death and turmoil for innocent lives wrapped up in war would be over with. But, no. Psychological warfare takes time. And, apparently, both enemies and allies of the Dark Lord would find themselves victims.

Draco reached up and patted his bald spot, absentmindedly. Everyone was going to know. He was a failure before he had even begun.

Already, Draco knew he was in this situation because of his task for the Dark Lord. He was a willing victim. And he was sacrificing his mental well-being in the hopes of future honor and power within the ranks, as well as the hope of being spared the wrong end of the Dark Lord's wand. He needed to finish his task soon. If not for the war, then for his own last shred of sanity of which he was just barely grasping.

Draco struggled to take a deep, shaking breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

He wouldn't have needed the Draught of Peace. He wouldn't have _needed_ the alcohol, if he'd felt sane in the first place. And now, he couldn't even have either one if he wanted to live to bring his task to completion. How would he get through? How would he cope without that tiny savior of relief that he had sought in the potion?

At least now, he was trying to be a willing patient. Madame Pomfrey had scolded him harshly after his near-duel with Potter had left him gasping over a dustbin, having ruptured an organ. He had finally realized that she was serious and that he _had_ to rest even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. He begged her, however, not to contact his parents, teachers or _Merlin_ , his friends and to tell others he had the flu and would not be taking visitors, as he was highly contagious. He reminded her that she was supposed to be nursing him back to health, and that contacting his parents would quickly undo all of her hard work, as they were likely to kill him themselves. She said that he should have thought about that before he made his poor decisions, and strode from the room. She did, thankfully, agree not to inform the headmaster or other students. _Thank Merlin for small favors_ , Draco thought, grudgingly. Mr. Potter, she added, would have to bring him his school work, unless he could think of someone else. And unless he wanted to be the laughingstock of Hogwarts, for both his pathetic stunt and bald scarhead, then he supposed Potter would have to do.

Draco was now in the midst of a full-blown panic attack, slowly writhing about on the bed, trying to control his body. The more he thought, the more he panicked, but there was _nothing_ else to do here but think. The concept of sleep seemed laughable.

Madame Pomfrey strode brusquely into the room towards Draco's bedside. She took his vitals and frowned at him.

Draco recoiled from her touch and appeared highly agitated and uncomfortable.

"Mr. Malfoy," she began.

"What?" he snarled.

"You need to relax," she replied, picking up the clipboard from the foot of his bed and recording her notes.

"Relax? Yes, okay. Thank you for your keen advice. I'll just go ahead and do that right now." He stopped and stared at her for a moment. "There, done. Thank you, that will be all."

She shook her head softly. "If there was something I could give you to make you more comfortable you know that I would, but . . ."

"But, I ruined that for myself," he finished, wryly. "I know. _Believe me_ , I know." He thought about the months that stretched ahead, miserable and without relief. He had never really _abused_ the potion, he didn't think, but it had just made everything _bearable_. Perhaps he _had_ become too dependent upon it, but it was only until he was done with his task, he had told himself, then everything would return to normal. Then _he_ would return to normal.

She surveyed him closely. "You're not going to sleep tonight, are you?" she asked.

Draco didn't respond, he just looked at her, annoyance mixed with utter defeat and shook his head softly. He struggled for another ragged breath.

"Well," she began slowly. "There is one thing we could try."

Draco raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"It's a charm- a sleeping charm, just so you could rest for tonight. Then, as your body heals, you can get back onto a normal sleeping pattern."

Draco distastefully wrinkled his nose at the phrase "sleeping charm." While _he'd_ never used one, he'd heard of them. They were known as a sort of low-brow way to knock oneself out. They were used on prisoners and rape victims, not on aristocracy. Also, he'd heard stories of how people would awaken in the night and sleepwalk, gorge themselves with sweets, fly on broomsticks, dangerously Apparate and splinch themselves, carry on unknowing conversations with people and either think they were asleep or not remember it at all. Sleeping potions were much more safe and effective than sleeping charms and were stronger than the Draught of Peace, which was not a sleeping potion at all, but a calming potion, in which lethargy was just a pleasant side effect. But, of course, potions were now out of the question.

"Sleeping charm?" he asked hesitantly.

"I know, they aren't normally prescribed, but given your current state of agitation and health, _not_ sleeping at all would be more dangerous than experiencing some of the lesser common side effects of the Sleeping Charms. Plus, side effects are uncommon, and generally only occur with abuse and misuse of the charm."

Draco nodded as though understanding, but asked, "For example?"

"For example," she continued, "when inexperienced wizards and witches try to self-administer the charm without medical supervision as you, of course, will have."

"So," he murmured, habitually clenching his tremoring hands, "So you'll not let me sneak into the kitchen and raid the cupboards halfway through the night?"

She laughed. "No, Mr. Malfoy. I assure you, you will remain in bed and you will remain safe."

He nodded uncertainly. "How long does the charm last?"

"About four hours," she replied. "Enough to put you to sleep and hold you there until your natural body responses take over, hopefully keeping you asleep for the rest of the night."

Draco nodded. "And if something happens . . . if I need to defend myself?"

She looked at him carefully. "Well, that is why sleeping charms should only be administered under medical care. You are entrusting yourself to me. Until the charm wears off, if awoken, you could experience dysphoria and mental confusion. You would not easily be able to stop the charm's effect on your own. _Ennervate_ would effectively stop the charm, but once under the charm, you may not want to _ennervate_ yourself, nor would you necessarily be aware that _ennervate_ would bring you back. In other words, you would feel in control of yourself, but you would not be."

Draco frowned, but nodded. He took a shaky breath. "Could it possibly make this any worse?" By _this_ he meant his current state of anxiety. If the answer was _yes_ then it was not a risk he was willing to take. Otherwise . . .

Madame Pomfrey smiled. "No, Mr. Malfoy. In fact, patients have reported that the effects feel quite pleasurable. You will feel warm first, with a little bit of tingling, and then you will calmly drift off to sleep."

He nodded.

"Don't fight the effects," she added.

Draco stared at her. Why would he? What would be the point? "Okay. . ." he slowly agreed.

She pointed her wand at the pale blonde. " _Somnicorpus_ ," she said.

After a few seconds, Draco felt a warmth radiate from her wand tip toward his chest. The vibrating heat spread from his chest through his arms and legs and as it did so, he felt his fingers first, and then his toes, wrists, arms and legs droop softly to the bed with relaxation. As the fuzzy warmth spread up through his chest into his head he felt a sense of safety, calm and security. Worry drained from his body almost instantly as he sagged against his pillow, smiling lightly, comforted. His eyelids hung, heavily veiling his eyes, leaving only lazy slits. Draco settled into the mattress and pulled the covers up, feeling happy and heavy and peaceful.

"How do you feel, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco smiled at her, contentedly. "Mmm," he muttered softly. "Good." The warmth enveloped him and he snuggled into the blankets as sleepiness serenely washed over his body.

"Do you think you'll be able to sleep tonight?" she asked, putting her wand into her medi-robe pocket.

Draco nodded, his eyelids slipping down further. "Mmm hmmm," he agreed.

"Good," she replied. "Good night, Mr. Malfoy."

"Hmmm?" he murmured. "Oh. G'night. Thank you M'am Pomfrey." He opened his eyes slightly and smiled, waving his hand loosely at her as she looked back at Draco, amused.

"You're welcome, Mr. Malfoy." Madame Pomfrey smiled back.

"And tell," he sighed, heavily. "Tell Potter 'f he tells anyone why 'm here 'll hex 'em." Draco let out an audible yawn and snuggled down deeper into the covers. "Hex 'em into next year. 'Kay?"

She laughed. "Okay," she agreed, jokingly and turned off the lights leaving Draco alone in the room.

But Draco didn't mind being alone anymore. He kept his eyes opened and lazily surveyed the room. This is good, he thought. This is _really_ good. He knew that he could drop off to sleep as soon as he wanted to, but he wanted to just rest a few moments and feel what it felt like to be normal again. Well, sort of normal. His body was overcome with euphoria in addition to slowed breathing and a calm sense of security.

It wasn't that his problems had melted away. He knew what they were. He knew the risks. He knew what was weighing on him and what he still had to accomplish. He just felt sure of himself. Confident and a little bit creative.

Strange thoughts and images drifted in and out of his path of consciousness, as though divine intervention could touch his thoughts and provide him with the answers of the universe. There really was no impending threat, he decided. He had almost a year left to fix the Vanishing Cabinet and then everything would be fine. Everything would be fine.

The call of sleep grew stronger, but Draco wasn't ready to let go of his rare, pleasant thoughts yet. He rolled onto his side in bed and stared at the stone wall of the infirmary. The stones began sliding down the wall, and he blinked hard, knowing his eyes were playing tricks on him. He opened his eyes, his lips parting softly in awe, and stared at the melting wall again . He realized he didn't care if the melting stones were real or not, as they were fascinating and lovely. He stared and meditated, sighing softly, until his head began to ache. Then he finally closed his eyes and drifted off into a heavy, deep, dream-filled sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry had skipped dinner in favor of a nap and was now planted in the corner of the couch by a roaring fire in the Gryffindor Common Room. His Potions book lay across his lap, as the backdrop of pouring rain pattered against the window of the tower, making him feel warm and dry and safe.

Harry always waited until Sunday night to begin his homework, unlike Hermione, who had scrambled to finish all of her assignments right after class on Friday and spent Saturday morning reviewing and editing all of her work. Now she sat, curled in an armchair recreationally perusing a book about Goblin rights and taking notes on a piece of parchment. Crookshanks was nestled into a faceless ball of orange fur beside her. The top of Ron's head could be seen over the arm of the chair as he sat on the floor, also working on his Potions assignment. Harry smirked at the two orange balls of hair that Crookshanks and Ron's head seemed to make. From Harry's angle, it looked like an orange, hairy snowman and he snickered to himself.

Hermione spoke without looking up. "Harry, you're not concentrating," she said, turning the page of her book.

"Am too," he retorted.

"You're not," she said, eyes still on her book. "There's nothing funny about Potions, plus you haven't put your quill to parchment in over fifteen minutes."

Harry sighed. She was right. His mind, of course, was playing over last night and this morning, like a broken record, sticking on all the worst moments and replaying them five times, ten times, until the record moved onto the next scene.

"I was just-er, never mind," he replied, shifting in his seat. "I'm trying. I just-"

"Have a lot on your mind?" she questioned softly, finally looking up at him.

Ron's curious brown eyes rose over the arm of the chair, hoping to listen in.

Harry stilled. Maybe it would help if he _did_ talk about it. It wasn't exactly _his_ secret to keep, anyway. They already knew he had been drunk. But for some reason, he just didn't think he should tell them. There was something too private, too raw about Malfoy last night. It was bad enough that Harry had to witness it. It really wasn't his business. But it definitely wasn't his place to tell anyone, either, despite the fact that he owed Malfoy no allegiance and if the situation were reversed, Harry knew with confidence that the story would be all over the school in an hour and somehow even more sensationalized than the actual horrible event. Or, more likely, Harry would have just been left for dead in the Owlery.

Harry took a deep breath. "Okay. I know you guys want me to talk about what happened last night, but-" He looked at Ron's wide eyes over the armchair. "But I just don't think I can. I just don't think I should-for, for the sake of the other person."

"But, Harry," Hermione protested, "You _can_ trust us. I know we haven't exactly been there for you, but . . ."

"That's not it," Harry said. "I know I can trust you and I _want_ to tell you, I just don't think it would be right. I know that M-that the other person would be humiliated if anyone knew. This person is already beside himself with the fact that I know. I went to see the person today and they tried to h-well, nevermind. But they weren't happy. And the person's sick. Quite sick. It's, it's not good," he let out. "And I shouldn't tell," he added.

Hermione was quiet for a moment.

"So, it's a 'he,' is it?" Ron's eyebrows waggled.

Harry stopped. He had been careful not to use pronouns, hadn't he? "Er-no-I didn't say-"

Ron rose up onto his knees so Harry could see the rest of his face. He leaned his elbows on the arm of the chair and grinned. "You said _himself_."

"Shit," Harry replied. "Alright, fine, it was a _he_. But I'm not telling you any more than that."

"Fine, Harry," Hermione said, lightly. "I understand. Because, believe or not, we _can_ be understanding people, Ron and I."

Harry didn't say anything. He just nodded and went back to his Potions assignment.

A tapping was heard on the window. In the rain, a brown school owl flapped about, waiting to be let in. Harry stood, glad for the escape and opened the window. The owl flew into the common room, its feathers wet and slick against its body. It stuck its leg out so Harry could take the dry, clearly charmed, envelope off of the owl's foot. His name was written on the front.

Harry opened the envelope.

_Mr. Potter,_

_I am requesting that you please obtain all school supplies and books for the patient that you brought to the hospital wing Saturday night. He wishes for his situation and hospitalisation to remain private. As you are the only student or staff member besides myself who is aware of the situation, it would be greatly appreciated if you could help your fellow student during this difficult time, as well as keep the situation confidential. In the case that you do not keep the situation confidential, I was to pass along the message that you will be 'hexed into next year."_

_Attached is a temporary, medical-use password for the Slytherin dorms, with a medical excuse as to why you are there. Please keep answers vague to protect the privacy of the patient._

_Thank you for your cooperation and compassion,_

_Madame Pomfrey._

Harry smiled grimly and patted the owl on the head. He reached into his robe pocket for one of Hedwig's treats. He broke it in half and gave a piece to the owl. He was certainly glad he had not told Ron or Hermione what had happened. While Madame Pomfrey clearly took the threat as a joke, Harry was all too certain that Malfoy would likely follow through with his promise.

The owl hooted in appreciation and flew out the open window. Harry shut the window and rubbed his arms, warming himself from the draft that he had just let in.

....

....

....

Draco was walking down steps. The winding stone staircase seemed never ending. The longer he walked, the dizzier he felt. He must have walked down at least fifteen stories by now. Where was he going?

He felt his body stumble as he grew more and more disoriented. He grabbed the handle of the stairs, but felt only thin air. He reached his hand to the wall to steady himself, but there was nothing there. Feeling scared he sat to slide down the staircase, but there was nothing beneath his feet. He yelled out, "Hello?" But no sound came out of his mouth. Panicking, he stood back up to run faster, but now he felt nothing below his feet at all.

"Help!" he yelled, running down nothingness, frantically. The blackness stretched on and on, but he knew that he could not turn back. He had to keep going. There was no turning back.

Suddenly he saw a room, lit up, ahead of him. It looked like a Potions classroom, but there were no desks and no chairs. Harry Potter, covered in blood, was in the room, flinging open cabinets muttering, "Shit! Shit."

"Potter?" Draco called to him, helplessly, but his voice made no sound.

"Shit!" Potter said again, throwing a bottle on the floor.

"Potter!" Draco yelled out, running faster down the steps. The faster he ran toward the classroom, however, the further away he seemed to get from it. He stopped running and stood, watching, terrified in the all-encompassing blackness.

Potter stopped searching and turned to face Draco. "Malfoy?" he asked, peering towards him from the classroom.

"Yes! Yes, you idiot, it's me!" Draco called to him, voicelessly. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he couldn't hear the heartbeats.

Potter's hands dropped to his sides and he shook his head, sadly. "I think it's too late," he said.

Draco didn't know what he meant, but he felt terrified. "Too late for what?" he demanded.

Potter just shook his head. He picked up bottle after bottle, inspected them, then threw them on the ground. Suddenly he ran forward and kicked at the cabinet. The remaining bottles slid off the shelves and shattered violently to the floor. Potter stepped backward, away from the cabinet and squinted, looking at Draco. "It's too late," he repeated.

Draco was growing anxious and impatient. He didn't understand. "For what, Potter? What are you talking about? What is it too late for?"

Potter looked down and spoke quietly, but Draco heard him clearly. "For you."

Draco was breathing quickly and heavily as he opened his eyes, finding himself in a tangle of sheets in the hospital bed. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat and he was trembling, somehow cold despite being overheated.

Madame Pomfrey nodded at him neutrally as he grasped the covers, still trying to orient himself to reality.

'Strange dreams?" she asked.

Draco, wide-eyed, nodded.

She wrote something on his chart. "That's normal," she replied.

Draco swallowed hard. "Fucking shite," he muttered.

Madame Pomfrey narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing. "Actually, Mr. Malfoy," she said, "that night of sleep did you a world of good. You're vitals are much stronger than yesterday, and your internal healing has progressed rapidly."

Draco blinked, rubbing his eyes. He was having trouble waking up fully. His eyes burned and he felt like he should go back to sleep. "What time is it?" he yawned.

"Ten thirty," she replied.

_Ten-thirty?_ He never slept that late. "Why am I still tired?" he asked.

"Again," she added, "Normal effect of a sleeping charm. Patients often feel groggy the next day, but it's nothing to worry about. You should be feeling alert and well-rested in about an hour or so."

Draco nodded and stared at his bed-sheets. Just then Potter walked into the room, precariously balancing a tower of books in his hands. His glasses were pushed up over his nose onto his forehead.

He grunted under the weight of the pile. "Wasn't easy to get these," he muttered, dropping the stack of books onto a nearby table and exhaling. A flash of orange behind Potter caught Draco's eyes.

"Er-Potter?"

Potter cracked his knuckles. "What?"

Draco frowned. "You have a tail."

He drew his eyebrows together. "Huh?"

Draco's mouth quirked up at the corner, trying not to laugh. Madame Pomfrey glanced up at Potter with a curious look on her face.

Finally Draco laughed out loud. "Turn around," he demanded. Potter obliged, looking over his shoulder as he did. Draco laughed louder. "Why do you have a _cat tail_?"

Sure enough, Potter could see a long, orange and white furry tail flicking back and forth behind him. It certainly explained all of the odd looks he received when walking from the Slytherin dungeons to the Hospital Wing.

Potter blushed and shrugged, sheepishly. "Like I said," he added, "Wasn't easy to get these." He gestured towards the books and then grabbed at his furry tail, curiously.

Draco smiled with self-satisfaction at his Slytherin dorm-mates, glad for the momentary distraction. The look on Potter's face helped, too.

"Here, move your hand," Draco said, picking up his wand.

Instinctively, Potter grabbed his own wand.

Draco sighed. "I'm not gonna hex you. You have a _tail_ , you moron."

Potter released the death grip on his wand. "Er, habit, you know? And, besides, that's not what the letter from the hospital said."

Madame Pomfrey looked at Potter but didn't say anything.

"Huh?" Draco asked.

"Well," Potter continued, swishing his tail. "Letter said if I told anyone what happened, you were going to hex me into next year."

Draco frowned then looked at Madame Pomfrey. She shrugged.

"Did I say that?" he asked her, amused.

"You did," she replied, her face serious but for a glint of humour in her eyes.

Draco frowned again. He didn't remember saying it, but it certainly _sounded_ like him. "Well, I echo the sentiment," he nodded at himself, approvingly. "Even half asleep, I speak the truth. And eloquently," he added. Then he narrowed his eyes at Potter. "I don't _need_ to hex you, do I?" he asked suspiciously.

Potter's eyes widened. "No! I-I didn't tell anyone," he stammered.

Draco mulled that over. "Not even the Mudblood and the Weasel?"

"Mr. Malfoy!" Madame Pomfrey chided. "That kind of language is _not_ tolerated in this school or in my presence."

Draco shrugged, unconcerned, but kept his shrewd eyes on Potter. Potter's lips curled back over his teeth in disgust.

"No," he growled. " _Hermione_ and Ron did ask why I was covered in blood, as concerned friends do, but for some reason, I kept your secret. And that was before I got the letter from Madame Pomfrey."

Draco considered this. "I would have told if I were you."

Potter scowled. "That's nice."

Draco shrugged. "Just being honest."

"Good to know your virtues are in place," he muttered. "Loyalty evidently not being one of them."

"Actually," Draco replied, annoyed, "I am loyal. When my loyalty is earned."

"I see," Potter replied, his voice cold. "So why should I be loyal to you?"

Draco smirked and fingered the wand in his hand. "Like I said," he drawled, softly, "If you aren't, I'll hex you. Apparently into next year."

"Mmm. So you gain loyalty through threats?"

Draco yawned, disinterestedly. "Whatever works, Potter. Now turn around." He gestured a circle with his wand.

Potter grudgingly turned, and Draco, true to his word, removed the tail without a hitch. Potter cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said.

"Yeah." Draco shifted uncomfortably.

"Um," Potter glanced from Malfoy to Madame Pomfrey. "Do you need anything else?"

Madame Pomfrey looked at Draco to answer.

Draco, uncomfortable with having to depend on Potter, or _anyone_ for that matter, scowled. "Potter, try and step up that chicken scratch and take decent notes for once," he demanded.

Potter rolled his eyes. "You need notes?"

Draco looked at him. "Yes," he stated. "I need to know what I'm missing in class."

"Why? You've been missing class all year."

Draco's face twisted up into fury, but Madame Pomfrey caught his eye.

"Relax," she stated, simply.

Draco nodded, curtly and took a controlled breath. "And no pictures of Cho Chang catching the Snitch, please."

Potter blushed, remembering when Draco stole his notes in fifth year and, howling with malicious glee, showed his humiliating sketch to the rest of the class whenever Snape turned his back.

Potter spoke through clenched teeth. "I'll do my best."

"Well," he said lightly, knowing that his stab had bested Potter once again. "That's all anyone can hope for, right?" He flashed him a sarcastic smile and nodded. "Good day, Potter."

Potter turned and stomped toward the door. "You're welcome, Malfoy," he spat out, without turning.

....

....

....

For the next few days, Harry continued to deliver Malfoy's work to the Hospital Wing, taking careful notes as neatly as possible, so as not to provide Malfoy with any additional fodder to use at his expense. Oddly enough, Malfoy was sleeping, or maybe pretending, each time Harry brought him his notes. It seemed real enough, though, as he was breathing deeply and didn't respond to the insults that Harry vindictively hurled at him.

"Here're your notes, you gutless wanker," he whispered over Malfoy's sleeping form. He noticed how much nicer Malfoy was like this-unconscious and silent. "Don't die in your sleep. . . or do! See if I care," he spoke soothingly and smirked.

Malfoy snored softly in response and turned over onto his side. "Potter," he mumbled.

Harry stepped back and grimaced. Oops.

Malfoy opened his eyes and looked at him woozily. His eyes lacked their usual piercing gaze. "Potter, it's me."

Harry frowned. "What?" he asked.

"It's me, it's Draco," he slurred, sleepily.

Harry furrowed his brows further. "Yeah, I-I know it's you. I just-I brought you your notes," he gestured to the night table.

"What do you mean?" he yawned and sat up.

"What do you mean, what do I mean?"

Malfoy's eyes widened in fear, but were unfocused. "It's not," he gasped.

Harry leaned towards him, confused. Was he still asleep? He seemed awake . . . sort of.

Malfoy put his hand to his throat and made a choking sound, tears began to well up in his eyes. He looked at Harry, pleadingly. "No," he shook his head.

Harry stepped back and gave Malfoy a strange look. Suddenly Malfoy scrambled out of the tangle of sheets on his bed and stumbled toward Harry. He grasped him by the shoulders. Harry's eyes widened in protest, but he could see that Malfoy's wand was still on the night table.

Malfoy looked at him wild-eyed. "Please don't say it," he whispered.

Harry gently unfolded the Slytherin's fingers from his robes. He was holding both of his hands when he looked to Malfoy and said, calmly, "Malfoy, go back to bed."

Malfoy squinted and blinked, confused. "Bed?" he repeated.

"Bed," Harry repeated. "You're sleeping," he guessed, but said it with authority, anyway.

"No," Malfoy shook his head and looked down at the floor. "'M'not." He kept staring at the floor. He began to sway on his feet and Harry worried that he might fall. "Can't be."

"Come on, Malfoy," he soothed, rolling his eyes and guiding Malfoy back to bed by his shoulders. Malfoy shuffled compliantly and climbed back into the bed, but he didn't close his eyes. He stared at Harry, looking concerned.

"Why is it too late?" he asked quietly, searching Harry's face for an answer.

This was odd. It was like Malfoy was sleepwalking. Harry knew that he, himself, frequently spoke during dreams, especially nightmares. But he never carried on with them when his eyes were open, that he knew of. He'd never seen anyone behave like this. It was like Malfoy was existing in his dream, but that the reality of Harry in the room had become a part of it.

"Too late for what?" Harry asked, playing along. He had nothing else to do.

Malfoy frowned hard and looked at his hands. "What you said before, Potter," he replied. "What you keep saying. Why is it too late for me?"

"Too late for you?" Harry asked.

Malfoy nodded. "You say it to me. Every bloody night."

"Every night?" he repeated.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but tilted his head to the side. "Yes, Potter! Every bloody night. But I'm asleep."

"You are asleep," Harry agreed.

Malfoy, huffed, annoyed. "Not right now! When you say it, you idiot!"

Harry swallowed. "Have you been dreaming about me?"

Malfoy threw his arms up in disgust. "That's what I've been trying to tell you! Are you deaf and stupid, Potter?"

Harry squinted at him, hard. It was strange, very strange. Now Malfoy seemed coherent. He was throwing insults at Harry, and stringing together somewhat sensible sentences. If Harry hadn't known that he was asleep just minutes earlier, he would have never guessed that the boy was not perfectly awake, and yet, the odd, unfocused look in his eyes, and his steady, heavy breathing convinced Harry that Malfoy was, indeed, fast asleep, despite all contrary outer appearances.

"Can you tell me what happens in the dream?" Harry asked, honestly curious.

Malfoy sighed and scrunched up his face. "'S not important because you're lying to me," he sniffed and curled up into a ball on the bed and wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. Harry, feeling uncomfortable, pulled the blankets up over Malfoy and sat down in a chair.

"I know it's a lie," he continued. "Know it. Has to be. 'S not too late."

"Not too late for what?" Harry asked, now wondering if he could get some information out of Malfoy. "Not too late for what you're doing for Voldemort?"

Malfoy choked out a gasp. "Shut up, you idiot!"

"About what?"

"Th' task," he moaned covering his face with his hands. "Th' bloody task."

Harry felt guilty for taking advantage of Malfoy in his sleep in a hospital bed, but there were more pressing issues, like the state of the world, that he had to worry about. "What task?" he asked.

"Hmmm," Malfoy hummed. Then he began to snore softly.

"What?" Harry asked, pleading silently that Malfoy would respond coherently.

"Nahnah," he muttered. "Mmm. Shh. Sleep."

Harry sucked his teeth. "Shit," he muttered and turned to leave. He shut off Malfoy's light and left the room, his mind swimming.

So there _was_ a task. He _knew_ Malfoy had been working on something. He just needed to figure out _what._ Harry walked briskly to the Great Hall to meet Ron and Hermione for lunch, wishing he could tell them this new, confirmed piece of information, but knowing that he couldn't.

....

....

....

When Harry brought Malfoy his notes on Thursday, he entered the room apprehensively. He hoped Malfoy would be asleep so that he could try and get more information out of him. Harry tiptoed into the hospital room, but Malfoy was sitting upright in his bed, staring out the window.

"Er-hi," Harry muttered.

"Oh," Malfoy responded. "It's you."

"Brought your notes," he said, holding them up to show him, then placing them on the seemingly untouched pile of books and notes on the night table.

"Mmm," Malfoy sighed. "Thank you, Father."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Father?"

Malfoy sat up straighter. "Potter?" His face twisted in disgust.

Harry shook his head. "You just called me 'Father,'" he tried, seeking clarification.

"No," Malfoy shook his head, scowling. "I wasn't talking to you, Scarhead."

"What?" Could Malfoy be sleeping again? This was too strange.

Harry stepped forward toward the bed and looked at Malfoy. He was staring passively at the stone walls of the infirmary and picking at his fingernails.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Malfoy asked him, not taking his eyes away from the wall. "The way they all blend together, melting like that? Like time, really. The way it blends together and continues on, but never stops for anybody?" He shrugged and looked down, his gaze seeming to follow a trail on the wall that Harry couldn't see. "It's all-consuming," he added. "As beauty should be. You know, when it exists."

Harry frowned. "Are you okay?" Malfoy sounded like he was on drugs. He didn't seem asleep. It made Harry uncomfortable.

Malfoy shrugged. "Fine, Potter. Just . . . thinking." He looked up at him, his eyelids heavy. "Madame Pomfrey says I'm getting better," he offered, coherently. "Shouldn't be much longer now."

"Until your task?" Harry asked, guessing he was asleep.

"Task?" Malfoy narrowed his eyes, suspiciously. "What are you on about?"

Maybe he was awake. It was impossible to tell. "Er-your homework," he pointed to the pile of books next to the bed. "Potions, er, task."

"Oh." Malfoy stared at the wall.

"Haven't you even touched your work?"

Malfoy sighed. "I apologize, sir."

"Sir?"

Malfoy sat up straighter again. "Father. I apologize. I will have all assignments completed and ahead of time, sir."

"Draco?" Harry chanced his name, then regretted it, wondering if it would play into Malfoy's dream.

"Yes, Father." It did.

"Your-you—" This was too weird. "Your father is in Azkaban, remember?"

"Yes," he narrowed his eyes at Harry, his gaze cold, but hazy. "How could I forget? Since we both know who _put_ him there."

"Uh. . ."

"Get _out_ , Potter," he snarled, facing Harry head-on. "Now. You're making me angry. You're ruining my recovery. I don't want to be here!"

Harry jumped back, startled. "Okay, okay," he agreed, aware that Malfoy was not making sense. "Goodbye."

"Bye," Malfoy stated. "Thank you."

"Uh," Harry stammered, backing away, "yeah . . ."

He backed out of the infirmary, watching Malfoy the whole time, but the blonde sat with his back to him, continuing to stare at the wall. Harry shook his head and tried to find Madame Pomfrey. She was working at her desk near the entrance.

She looked up. "Hello, Mr. Potter," she said lightly, continuing her work.

"Uh, hi," he said. "Madame Pomfrey?"

"Yes, Potter?"

"I have a question."

"Yes, Potter?"

"About Malfoy."

She put her quill down. " _Yes,_ Potter. Go ahead."

"He's been acting really, er, strange, the last two times I've seen him. Like, he looks like he's awake, but he's not making any sense. He just called me 'Father' and carried on talking like I was his dad."

She narrowed her eyes. "Go on."

"And talking about melting walls and stuff. But then-then sometimes he seemed to make sense. He told me you said he was getting better, that he might be out soon. That's, uh, that's good."

"Yes," her voice was clipped, suspicious. "Yes, I said that. Tell me more about his behavior, please."

"You don't, you don't think it's serious do you?" he asked. "I know it's not really my business, but, it's not _brain_ damage or anything is it?"

She cleared her throat. "No, I don't believe it is." She stood up then and began walking back toward Malfoy's room.

Harry wasn't sure if he should follow, knowing it wasn't his business, but his curiosity got the best of him. He trailed behind Madame Pomfrey and walked back toward Malfoy's bed where he was still gazing dreamily at the wall.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Madame Pomfrey barked at him.

He turned toward them and blinked, twice. "Yes?"

"Who is in this room right now?"

He narrowed his eyes and shrugged. "I can't be bothered," he stated. "Roundabout questions."

"What's a 'roundabout question?'" she asked.

Malfoy laughed then and shook his head. The laugh didn't reach his eyes, which were still heavy looking. "All of them," he muttered, waving his hand in the air. "Go on."

"Go on?" she asked, stepping closer to him.

"It's what I said, before," he yawned and blinked. "Oh, Potter. Back again? Lovely. Please, do come in."

Harry exchanged a look with Madame Pomfrey. He stepped forward. Malfoy laughed again and put his head in his hands, trying to stifle it. Then he raised his hand, looking affronted. "Forty points?" he asked. "But, surely, Professor, you realize that he did it on purpose!" He glared back at Harry. "Happy now, Potter?" he hissed.

"Um, Malfoy? I didn't-what are you talking about?"

"Oh, yes, play dumb, Potter," he smiled, leering at Harry. "But I guess it's not too much of a stretch for you, is it?"

"Mister Malfoy," Madame Pomfrey interrupted. She pointed her wand at him. Malfoy's eyes widened. "What-?"

" _Ennervate!"_ she declared. Harry watched as Malfoy's eyes changed from glassy to clear. He tensed up, his eyes growing further in shock as he seemed to just realize that Harry and Madame Pomfrey were in the room with him.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Madame Pomfrey scolded. " _What_ do you think you're doing?"

He blinked groggily, looking annoyed. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Are you mad?" she demanded, sounding more hysterical than Harry had ever heard her. "Are you absolutely touched in the head?"

Malfoy glanced up and scowled. "Well, seeing as _you_ just woke a patient from sleep, I feel I should be asking you the same question."

Madame Pomfrey sucked in a sharp breath, then seemed to remember that Harry was in the room. "Potter!" she nearly shouted.

"Uh-" he began.

"Go!" she yelled.

Harry looked to her and then back at Malfoy who was sitting disheveled and disturbed on his bed. He turned and left without a word.

_What_ just happened? What had Malfoy done?

....

....

....

After Potter had left the room, Madame Pomfrey laid into Draco.

"Self administering a sleeping charm! Of all the _irresponsible_ and foolish things I've seen a student-no, a _patient_ do . . . do you _want_ to get better, Malfoy? Do you?"

Draco felt too exhausted to answer. He had just been torn out of a peaceful slumber to find Madame Pomfrey raving about the room and stupid Harry Potter standing around like some limp giraffe, head bowed, waiting for a treat.

Madame Pomfrey took a deep breath and strode up to Draco, looking at him closely. "I find it hard to believe that you would intentionally knock yourself out in the middle of the day, yet the amount of poison you consumed to get yourself here in the first place is highly concerning." She softened her voice. "I don't understand, Draco. Are you trying to hurt yourself?"

Draco felt physically uncomfortable and was clearly bothered by the intense scrutiny he was receiving. He frowned and turned his head to look out the window.

"If you are," she added, "we can find you help-we can-"

" _No_ , alright?" he shouted. "No."

"No what?" she asked, peering at Draco, skeptically.

"I-I wasn't trying to _hurt_ myself, okay?"

She nodded, folding her arms. "What were you trying to do, then?"

Draco thought fast. "I-heal myself," he muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

He breathed heavily. "You told me that the more I slept, the better it would be. So, since I couldn't just _fall_ asleep and I wanted to get better. . . I thought I'd just try the charm during the day. You know, double my chances, speed my recovery."

She looked at him closely and nodded slowly. "But you heard what I said . . . about misuse. About abuse? Dependency on the charm can begin after only a few uses!"

He nodded slowly. He'd conveniently forgotten that detail. "Yeah, sorry," he offered. "I guess I wasn't really thinking."

"I don't know if you weren't thinking or if you weren't listening."

He shrugged and folded his arms. They were quiet for a moment before Draco said in a small voice, "How did you know?"

Her face reddened momentarily and she cleared her voice. "Actually, it was Mr. Potter who called it to my attention."

_Harry Potter._ Of course. Of _course_ it was. His blood began to boil with rage but he kept his face neutral. "And he knew-"

"Mr. Malfoy," she interrupted. "I have some work to get back to. But, look at me."

He did.

"Promise me that you will not use that Sleeping Charm on yourself for the rest of your stay in this infirmary. Is that clear?"

He inwardly smiled at the loophole she had just created for him. "Crystal."

She held his gaze for a moment, then looked at his pile of untouched homework assignments. "You really are improving quickly. You'd better take a look at some of those assignments."

He nodded again.

"Keep yourself busy, maybe you can wear yourself out the natural way. By doing work." She raised her eyebrows at him, then turned to leave.

Draco sighed. Well, it was a nice break while it had lasted, anyway. He felt cold and bored and lonely. The cool October sunlight shone brightly through the room. He could see the dust particles floating in the air in front of him and felt a headache coming on. He wished he could take a nap.

No, he wished he could use the Sleeping Charm, but it would be more than obvious now if he did. Had he been acting strangely? He didn't think so, but he couldn't remember. It felt like he had just been sleeping. Maybe it was because he had been sleeping so much that Madame Pomfrey became suspicious. She knew that he had been extremely anxious upon arrival. I guess it would seem odd that that trait would simply disappear. But it had, and it was so nice when it had.

And, of course, Potter had ruined everything by being a Gryffindor tattle tale.

Draco reached for his Charms textbook and brought it onto his lap. He'd thought enough about Potter. The lanky loser had been haunting him in his dreams and in real life. Why couldn't he just go away? Ever? This year it felt like the git was positively stalking him. Everywhere he went, those piercing green eyes in those horribly embarrassing frames were following him. When they weren't, Draco could hear the unmistakable swish of Potter's Invisibility Cloak (he wasn't stupid) and knew he was being followed. But he was quite certain that Potter still didn't know what he had been working on in the Room of Requirement, or of the task he had to complete for the Dark Lord to spare his family's lives and receive his place of honor amongst the Death Eaters. If he could do it-no, _when_ he did it-no one would ever laugh at him again. He would be the Dark Lord's youngest servant and bring fear and respect back to the Malfoy name. He would be branded with the Dark Mark, the youngest to be marked. He could do it. He had to do it. If not, he would lose everything.

Draco remembered the terror he had felt as he knelt before the Dark Lord in August, swearing his loyalty and being forced to offer his family as collateral. The Dark Lord had brought Draco to his feet and grabbed him from behind the neck, pulling him within inches of his white snake-like face, and those inhuman red eyes. Draco could smell him, and he even smelled of death, like a musty, mildewed dungeon. Cold, nauseating. He forced himself to stand straight, trying not to recoil in disgust and fear. He kept his head bowed as a dagger was dragged lightly, slowly across his throat.

"Is your loyalty worth more than your life?"

"Yes, my Lord." Draco stared at his feet, intently, as his heart pounded in his ears, trying to will his knees to stop shaking. He vaguely wondered why he had not worn his dragon-hide boots.

"Is your loyalty worth more than your parents' lives?"

His father had trained him to answer this question. "My loyalty to your service comes before all else, my Lord. My life is yours with which to do your bidding." The words felt hot and misplaced on his tongue, despite how many times he had rehearsed his answer. His voice, strong, sounded far away to his ears but did not reveal the fear he truly felt. His voice did not shake, did not falter, even though he could feel himself shaking, faltering.

"Is it, young Draco?"

He swallowed. "Yes, my Lord."

Draco suddenly felt a sharp pain and intense heat slowly make its way across his throat as the dagger cut through the skin of his bowed neck. He dug the fingernails of his hands into his palms and tried to place his focus on something else-Anything else. He stared at the floor and watched as one, fat drop of blood fell onto his the toe of his boot.

_Glad I didn't wear the dragon-hide boots, after all_ , he thought. Suddenly he wanted to laugh. Not good, not good. He bit the inside of his cheek and tried to clear his mind completely. He thought nothing. He was nothing, at least, not anymore. Now he was His.

The Dark Lord grabbed the back of his neck roughly, then, and threw him onto the stone floor. Draco could hear his knees crack against the stone as he crumpled into a pile at the feet of his new master. He tried to scoot himself into a kneeling position, his fractured knees protesting in pain and his head swimming in hot fear and confusion.

"You will serve me well, young Draco," The Dark Lord whispered.

"Yes, my Lord." It sounded choked, strained.

And as Draco stared at the feet of the Dark Lord, trying to steady his breathing, focus his mind and ignore his fear and pain, his first task was explained to him.

And he fell apart inside all over again.

Draco arched his back in the hospital bed and tried to get a full breath. He rubbed his groggy eyes and was surprised to find his face covered in sweat.

He couldn't keep doing this. That day in August was when he stopped sleeping. That day in August was when he began to tremble without reason, when his heart began to pound in his chest in the middle of studying, when he would find his hands dripping with sweat and his shoulders curled inward as he tried, desperately, to get in control of himself and of his weak emotions. That night, pathetic tears had stained his face and his shaking hands had erratically grabbed for his potion-making kit. He'd brewed his first stores of the Draught of Peace and had been drinking it steadily ever since. Two months of this mental hell was draining him. He had to complete his task. He had to do it quickly. He couldn't take much more. And Harry fucking Potter was trying to ruin it all. Draco needed to keep him away.

Except now he was kind of at the hero's mercy. He had to trust that Potter would keep his word and not tell anyone what happened. He needed him to keep bringing his notes and work. Draco had to carry on like everything was normal and fine as quickly as possible and, ironically, he needed Potter's help to do that.

No, what he needed to do was his homework. He opened up his Charms textbook to the chapter on Incomplete Charms and began to read. And as he read, an idea began to form.

....

....

....

In class, no one seemed suspicious about Malfoy's absence. When Harry had retrieved Malfoy's books from the Slytherin dorms, no one questioned his excuse about Malfoy having the flu, and no one seemed to question why Harry was the one helping Malfoy. He had quietly muttered something about Pomfrey making him, and the rest of the Slytherins just kept their distance, assuming Harry was contaminated with Malfoy's flu virus.

"Hey Potter!" Pansy Parkinson demanded one day, stopping him in his tracks.

He looked at her for a moment and said nothing. She sneered at him.

"Okay, nice talking to you, Parkinson," he said, and turned to leave.

"I'm not finished, you moron," she said, nastily.

"What do you want?" He rolled his eyes.

She narrowed hers. "How is Draco?" she asked quietly.

Harry took a deep breath and kept his face neutral. "Fine."

She squinted her cow face further. "How do I know you aren't lying?"

He turned to leave. "Couldn't care less if you thought I was."

She trotted up beside him. "Stop being a prat, Potter. Is it really the flu?"

"What makes you think it isn't?" he looked at her, coldly.

She curled her lip in disdain. "I didn't say that. And if I had, I'm not likely to tell you." With that, she turned on her heel and strode away with her nose in the air. Harry resisted the urge to hex her.

Ron came up alongside Harry then. "Was that Pansy Parkinson talking to you?" he asked thickly, chewing on a Chocolate Frog.

Harry rolled his eyes and nodded.

He balked. "Why?" he asked, a disgusted look on his face.

Harry shrugged. "Nothing better to do, I guess."

They made their way towards the Great Hall. Harry's messenger bag was packed full with both his work and Malfoy's. He hoped Ron wouldn't notice.

"That cow," Ron commented. "What did she say?" He passed Harry his Chocolate Frog card. Another Dumbledore card. It was a running joke in Gryffindor to give Harry all of the Dumbledore Chocolate Frog cards, since everyone knew he was Dumbledore's favorite student. Harry had protested at first, but after Fred and George Weasley had littered his bed with about a hundred Dumbledore cards after a party one night, Harry had given up and just started collecting them, finding it funny.

Harry slipped the card into his messenger bag and smiled, wryly. "Thanks," he said. "You know, she called me a moron and a prat, that sort of thing."

"Bitch," Ron muttered. Harry nodded in agreement.

"Listen, Ron, I'll meet up with you in an hour."

He nodded then stopped Harry. "Why?"

"Just need to-something I need to check."

Ron shook his head. "Leave Malfoy alone, Harry."

Harry's breath caught in his chest. "What?"

"Stop following him around, Harry. You're getting in over your head. It could be dangerous."

Oh. Right. Ron was talking about how Harry had been trailing Malfoy since the start of the school year. "I just-"

"Just be careful."

Harry nodded. "See you, Ron."

"See you," he waved and continued walking.

Harry turned and headed toward the Infirmary.

When he entered the Infirmary, Madame Pomfrey stopped him. "Mr. Potter," she said.

"Hi," he replied, waiting.

"Mr. Malfoy is doing much better. I'll be sending him home tomorrow with instructions for at-home care."

Harry nodded, wondering if he was supposed to say something. "That's good," he offered. "Well, I-" he gestured to his bag of books and she nodded.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Potter," she stated sincerely.

"It's fine."

"I just wanted to say it in the likely event that Mr. Malfoy does not. You were a huge help, to both of us, but mostly to him."

Harry shifted awkwardly. "It's okay."

"Thanks to you," she said. She smiled a little sadly. "I know you two don't exactly _get along_ ,"

Harry snorted then caught himself. "Sorry, er-no, not exactly. Loathe seems to be the most appropriate term."

"Hmm, yes." She gave him an odd look. "Well, for someone you claim to _loathe_ , it appears you value him greatly."

Harry shrugged. "He said he'd hex me if-"

"I know what he said. But he never told you to express your concerns about his health to me, over and over again throughout the week."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. "Well, I just thought-"

She shook her hand, dismissively. "Just-thank you, Potter. From both of us. You can go see him now."

Harry wrinkled his face in confusion. He had just done what anyone would have done in his situation, right? He had just done the _right_ thing. Sure, maybe Malfoy wouldn't have done it for him but that was because Malfoy was a git. Anybody else would have. Sure.

Harry walked in the room. Malfoy was sitting up in bed with a Potions textbook sprawled across his lap.

Harry walked across the room, awkwardly. "You awake, Malfoy?" He figured he'd better be certain this time.

Malfoy didn't look up from his book, but Harry could see the sneer spread across his face. "No, Potter. Fast asleep, reading."

Harry shrugged. "Well, it wouldn't be unusual for you. Your state of consciousness has been up for debate all week."

Malfoy frowned and met his eyes with an intense, piercing gaze. Harry felt pretty confident that Malfoy was awake this time. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

Harry opened his messenger bag and began pulling out the extra notes and necessary books and supplies for Malfoy. A green knit hat fell out of his bag. Malfoy recognized that hat immediately and his eyes widened in rage. "You filthy thief!" he hissed.

Harry could feel his blood begin to boil. " _What_ did you call me?"

Malfoy slammed his Potions book shut and pointed at the hat on the floor. "That's my hat! You _stole_ my hat! Give it to me!"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Of course. Typical. That _would_ be the first conclusion your sick Slytherin mind would come up with." He snatched the hat off the floor and threw it in Malfoy's face.

" _My_ hat is in _your_ bag! What other conclusion should I draw from that?" he huffed, his gray eyes blazing. "So sorry if you haven't enough money to afford nice things, Potter, but when someone lets you into their room when they are _sick_ , the first assumption isn't that the person is going to be a bloody pirate and go nosing through their personal belongings pilfering whatever they think is going to help hide their hideous, hopeless, hairstyle-"

"Get a grip!" Harry yelled, kicking the side of the bed. The Potions book fell onto the floor. Malfoy balked, his mouth gaping open.

"How _dare_ -"

"I didn't steal your ugly hat! I brought it for you, you insane moron! You think if I was stealing from you, I'd just keep it mixed in my messenger bag with your school notes?" Harry was livid. "Or that I'd steal your _hat?_ I'm sure you have plenty of items worth a lot more than some stupid piece of knitwear!"

"How should I know what a professional thief does? But thanks for the tip! I'll make sure to double check my room when I get back to see what else your thieving hands snatched up!" He paused. "Wait," his face twisted up, confused. He took a deep breath. "You brought it for me?"

Harry grunted something that sounded like "yeah" and looked away.

"But-why?"

Harry rolled his eyes and scowled. "Don't know. _Really_ don't know. It was a mistake. I shouldn't have."

Malfoy peered at him curiously and softened his voice, somewhat, though he was still looking at him skeptically. "You really brought it for me?"

Harry felt humiliated. He swallowed down the heat and adrenaline that had risen in his throat and he felt himself blushing. "Yes," he mumbled, crossing his arms and glaring at the floor.

Malfoy took the hat off his lap and held it. "Why?" he asked again.

Harry was quiet for a moment, embarrassed and angry. This was what Madame Pomfrey was talking about. _Why_ did he bring him a hat? It didn't make any sense. No one else in his position of self-proclaimed loathing would have done it.

Harry gestured to Malfoy's head. The red scar had lightened to a less-angry looking pink, but the chopped hair and buzz spots looked a bit more ridiculous than they had earlier that week, sticking out in every direction in the middle of an otherwise perfectly groomed coif.

"Your," he cleared his throat. "Your. Uh. Head," he grunted, keeping his eyes on the floor. "So, you know. When you leave tomorrow. . ."

Malfoy's mouth curled up like he had tasted something sour. "Are you serious?"

Harry swallowed his humiliation. "Whatever." His voice was almost a whisper and his cheeks were flaming red. "It was stupid."

Malfoy played with the hat in his hands. "No," he said, quietly. "It was nice."

Harry glanced up at him quickly. He wasn't sure if he heard him correctly. "What?"

Malfoy glanced at him oddly and tossed his head to the side. "I wouldn't have done it."

No, Harry knew, he wouldn't have. Harry shrugged.

Malfoy pulled the hat over his head and raised his eyebrows. Then he folded his arms over his chest and sat up straighter.

Something about the self-righteous look on Malfoy's face while he lay pale and gaunt with that green hat on his head and his pointy nose turned up in the air made Harry want to laugh. The corner of his mouth twitched up and he bit his lip, trying to stifle it.

Malfoy frowned. "What?" he asked, and adjusted his hat.

Harry shook his head. "It's-nothing," he lied. Then he cracked and covered his mouth as he snorted into his hands.

"I'm sure I don't know _what_ could possibly be funny right now. I happen to know that this hat accentuates all of my best features," he bragged, but the corners of his eyes appeared amused. "Except my hair, of course," he added.

Harry laughed harder. What was going on? He wasn't even laughing at Malfoy anymore, just at the hilarity of the situation in which he found himself. And the fact that he couldn't stop laughing made him laugh harder.

....

....

....

Draco was laughing, but he didn't really know what was so funny except that the image of Potter laughing uproariously in front of his hospital bed just struck him as completely out of place, inappropriate and hilarious.

Madame Pomfrey walked by then as the two boys roared with laughter. Potter had his head in his hands, wiping away tears, and Draco pressed the palm of one hand against the bridge of his nose, shoulders shaking noiselessly. She shook her head, smiling herself at the odd scene and continued on.

Draco, of course, was the first to break the laughter. "So," he spoke neutrally now, but his eyes were still squinted in merriment. "What did you mean about my state of consciousness?"

Potter took a deep breath, trying to compose himself and plopped down in the chair. "What?" he asked.

"You," he coughed. "Before, you said that my state of consciousness had been up for debate all week. What did you mean by that?"

"Oh," Potter said, now met with Draco's neutral mask. "That."

Draco raised his eyebrows, indicating for Harry to continue. "Yes, _that_."

"Well," Potter began, seemingly reluctant to end the lighthearted moment. He spoke slowly, as if Draco was a snake, ready to strike. Which he was. The laughter had been nice, though, finally cutting through the tension that lay between the two boys, thick as molasses, for so many years. But it could mean nothing. No truce. Just an extremely odd and unexplainable moment. "The last few times I came here you were sleeping."

Draco nodded, knowingly. "And what is so debatable about that? Seems pretty obvious to me."

"That's just it," Potter said. "It wasn't always obvious. You-I thought you were awake. You'd be just, sitting there, talking to me, like normal."

Draco began to grow uneasy of where this conversation was going. "We never talk 'like normal,'" he commented.

"That's just it," Potter scoffed. "You'd be nice, for a minute."

Draco smirked.

"But then-then you'd be crying and . . ."

No.

"And asking me why it was 'too late' and . . ."

Too late? No!

"Demanding to know why you just lost forty house points and then calling me "Father" and . . ."

He'd called him _Father?_

"And then looking back at me again and calling me 'Scarhead' and 'idiot.'"

Well, that was okay.

"But it was just, really weird, because I never really knew if you were awake or not. Sometimes you'd make sense and then a second later you'd be grabbing at my robes begging me-"

"Okay! That's enough." Draco's cheeks were burning and bright red. "I don't want to hear anymore."

Potter shrugged. "Okay." He stood up to leave and Draco began to panic. What had he said to him? What had he told him about that stupid dream he kept having? And about his father? And, oh Merlin, what if he told him, what if he told him, what if he told him . . .?

Draco suddenly realized Potter was peering over him. "Uh, are you okay?" he asked.

Draco was sweating profusely and his heart was racing. He stared past Potter, wide eyed. "Oh yes!" he clipped. "Perfect. Yes, everything you saw or heard was intentional."

Potter frowned. "Should I go get-?"

"Just another clever rouse, Potter, to throw you off my trail!" Draco was clutching his bed covers, desperately.

"You-you're hyperventilating."

He clutched at his throat. "Intentionally, Potter! Intentionally." He gritted his teeth as his body began to itch.

"Jesus," Potter muttered. "Settle down!"

"Don't! I-" Draco choked. He couldn't remember how to be angry. What did he say? What did he say? He needed to know. He had to know, even if it killed him. Which it might. "Sit down!" he yelled, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched.

Potter backed up a step and complied, not really sure why. "Okay . . .? I'm sitting. What's the _matter_ with you?"

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He spoke slowly and in a controlled voice. "I need you," he began through clenched teeth. "To tell me _everything_ I did or said over the last few days. _Everything_." He looked at him then with pleading eyes. "Please. Even if I tell you to stop, or shut up, or threaten your life or run screaming from the room. You have to tell me everything. Everything, or, or I'll-"

Potter put his hands up. "You don't need to threaten me, Malfoy. I'll tell you everything I remember."

Draco swallowed hard and nodded. Right. He was a Gryffindor. They didn't need a reason to agree idiotically and blindly to lending a helping hand to those perceivably in need.

Potter cleared his throat and began. "Well, the first time, I woke you up. But-not really, since you weren't actually awake. You looked at me and said my name, so I figured you were. And then you said, 'It's me, it's Draco.' And I'm thinking, yeah, obviously."

Draco swallowed the lump of embarrassment in his throat, but strongly suspected that this was not the worst of it. He stared at Potter's tattered red trainers as he spoke.

"And then you started asking me why I kept telling you it was too late. And then you jumped out of bed and grabbed me and started, er, crying, sort of and calling me a liar. And then, uh," Potter paused, as if carefully choosing his words. "Then you started moaning about some, uh, some task." Potter stopped and chanced a look at Draco.

The color had drained completely from Draco's face. He looked as white as the sheets of his hospital bed. His eyes widened and his face looked horrified. "A task?" he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Yeah, but- but right after you mentioned it, you fell back asleep. All the way, that is."

"I did?" he whispered. He looked up at Potter, trying to fight the suspicious look that he felt creeping onto his face. If he _had_ said anything about the task, Potter was not likely to tell him. Draco could threaten him all he wanted, but all Potter had to do was lie. He squinted. "That's-you're sure that-" He stopped and composed himself. "I didn't say anything else about this, uh so-called task?"

"No," Potter said quickly. "Just told me to shut up about it. And then you said 'Nahnah, sleep.'" He smirked.

Draco's mouth tasted like sandpaper. "Glad you're enjoying yourself at my expense, Potter."

"Oh, I am." Potter retorted, smiling.

Okay, Draco thought. So Potter had woken him up and he babbled a bit in his sleep. And apparently jumped out of bed. That didn't sound _so_ strange. He shouldn't have woken him up in the first place. "And the next time?" he dared to ask, still staring intently at Harry's dirty-looking trainers.

Potter cleared his throat. "The next time I walked in and you were sitting on your bed staring at the wall. I don't know if you knew exactly who I was. You kept switching between calling me Potter and looking disgusted and annoyed and calling me "Father" and "sir" and acting apologetic for not doing your homework."

Draco's face contorted and he looked like he was going to cry, but he stayed still and listened. "Go on," he rasped, pressing his lips together into a thin, hard line.

"And then you starting going on about the walls melting."

Draco looked up at him sharply and met his gaze. "I talked about that?"

Potter looked sheepish and embarrassed. Draco couldn't imagine how _Potter_ could possibly look embarrassed right now. Or how anyone else in the world could possibly feel as mortified as he felt.

"You went on and on about it," Potter offered meekly. "About how beautiful it was and just about beauty in general and how it's all-encompassing and-"

The color had returned to Draco's face and spread to the tip of his ears. He held his hand up for Potter to stop.

"You said not to stop," Potter protested.

"I know what I said."

"Okay, then, um."

"I really said all that?" Draco mused aloud, mostly to himself, knowing that if Potter was repeating it then he had definitely said it.

"Why, do you remember thinking it?"

Draco nodded, his eyes back on the shoes. "Yeah. I remember it being fascinating at the time," he said in a tiny voice.

"I imagine it must have been, the way you were carrying on about it."

Draco scrutinized Potter's face to see if he was laughing at him, but there was no hint of mirth in his voice or his face. He looked like he meant it. Draco didn't know what to make of that.

"I started to worry you were on drugs or something."

"Drugs?" Draco asked, confused.

"Uh. Drugs are like, er- like hard potions or something."

"Oh." Draco nodded, knowing his guess wasn't too far from the truth. "Right."

"And then," Potter continued. "Then you seemed to snap out of it and recognize me again and you told me to get out, that I was making you angry and ruining everything. So on the way out, I saw Madame Pomfrey and then it occurred to me that maybe when you hit your head you did some-some damage there or-"

Draco didn't mean to laugh but he did. "Brain damage?" he muttered.

Potter shrugged. "I didn't know. You were acting so weird. So- I don't know. _She_ seemed to know, though, and looked really pissed and then we came back in and you were accusing me of losing you house points and then she brought you, uh, out of it. I guess."

Draco nodded slowly and looked up at Potter. "Is that it?" he asked him.

Potter nodded, holding his gaze. "Pretty much."

"Hm," Draco nodded in finality. "Okay. I can see how my state of consciousness might have been up for debate."

Potter's mouth quirked up. "Uh, yeah." He cleared his throat. "If you don't mind my asking-"

"I do." Draco cut him off in a hard voice.

Potter let out an exasperated sigh, but continued. "What was that all about? What were you on? Was it a spell? Do you _always_ act like that when you sleep?"

Draco scowled. " _No_ , I don't always act like that when I sleep!"

"Well, then?"

Draco huffed and crossed his arms. "Well then, _what?"_

Potter just stared at him.

Apparently the hero felt like he was _owed_ some sort of an explanation for having had to deal with it all. As if _he_ was the one whose private thoughts were put on display in such a humiliating manner. Typical Potter. Thinks the whole world is his business.

Draco rolled his eyes and exhaled, defeated. "Sleeping charm," he admitted.

Potter's eyebrows raised. "What-really?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes, really," Draco huffed. "Couldn't take any _potions,_ now could I?"

Potter shook his head and cast his big owl eyes at the floor. "No, no I guess not. But a _sleeping_ charm? Isn't that really, uh, controversial?"

"Well, I guess we can all see _why_ , can't we?" he retorted. He was quickly growing tired of this conversation. He didn't owe Potter an explanation. He didn't have to defend himself. It was his sodding hospital room! Potter was the intruder, from the very start.

"And I'm guessing Pomfrey told you not to do it," Potter said. It was a statement. A statement from an irritating know-it-all.

"She did it for me first," he said through gritted teeth.

"And then you did it on your own?" Potter asked.

Draco had had enough. "This is none of your business, Potter. Stop asking me irritating questions. Thank you for stopping by. You can leave now."

"That's really dangerous," he muttered. "From what I know about them, they're really addictive and-and—"

"And, and? Mind your own business. Do you really think a _Malfoy_ would be addicted to a _sleeping charm_ like a common criminal?"

They both stopped talking, the unspoken thought lingering in the air between them. Draco realized what he just said and was glad for Potter's sake that the prat didn't make a comment about Azkaban and how his _father_ was locked up like a common criminal at that very moment.

Potter stood to leave. "Just," he faltered. "Just be careful," he murmured quickly as he turned to exit.

"Oh, _Merlin!"_ Draco was shouting, but didn't know why. "Why do you act like you bloody _care?"_

Potter flipped around, his eyes looked surprisingly furious. "I don't _know!"_ he yelled, kicking the chair in the room. It screeched across the stone floor, skidding to a halt next to Draco's bed.

They both stared at each other, not sure what to make of that.

"I," he repeated, breathing deeply and getting in control of himself. "I don't know."

Weird. He wasn't denying that he cared about Draco. He was _agreeing_ that he did. It was very unsettling.

Potter turned away then and started storming off.

"Thanks for the hat," Draco muttered, instantly regretting it and hoping Potter hadn't heard him.

Potter stopped and turned around, peering at him curiously.

"What?" Potter asked.

Not listening, as usual, Potter? Well, a Malfoy never repeats himself. Too bad. "Go fuck yourself," Draco sneered.

Potter narrowed his eyes. Good. Things were back to normal.

Potter stared at him for a moment. "You're welcome," he spoke slowly, a smile ghosting the corners of his mouth.

Shit. Draco rolled his eyes and pulled the covers over his head, wanting to die or disappear. He stayed that way until he heard Potter's footsteps exit the infirmary. _Why_ and _how_ did Potter always have to witness his most embarrassing moments?


	4. Chapter 4

When Harry entered the Gryffindor Common Room, Hermione and Ron were sitting near each other, but not on _top_ of each other. This was new. Or old. Hopefully it didn't mean that they were fighting.

Ron looked up then. "Excellent, Harry! Want to play chess?"

Things seemed okay, he guessed. "Yeah," he agreed and sat down at the chess table with Ron by the fire.

Hermione piped up from her book. "Ron says you've been following Malfoy."

Harry's heart flip-flopped again at the name. Did she know? She couldn't. Could she? But she had said _following_ and not _visiting_ or _nursing back to health_ or anything. . .

He nodded and figured he could spill a little of what he knew without giving it all away. "He's up to something for sure."

Hermione shook her head softly. "Here we go again."

Harry moved a chess piece and scowled at her. "He _is_. I heard him talking about some task. I know it's for Voldemort."

Ron gasped and nearly keeled off his stool.

"Sorry," Harry sighed. " _You-Know-Who_."

Ron gathered himself back together and jumped back into the chess game.

"How could you tell?" asked Hermione.

Harry moved his rook, but didn't remove his fingers from the piece. "I could just tell, Hermione. By the way he said it."

"So, you didn't actually get any proof," Ron stated, disappointed.

Harry shook his head, "But-"

"That's not really much to go by, Harry," Ron commented. Harry took his hand off the chess piece and Ron made his move. "Checkmate. Listen, I don't trust him either, but, you heard him say _task_ in a suspicious voice. . ."

"That's not exactly comprehensive evidence," Hermione chimed in.

Harry exhaled. He knew this. "I know, but I trust my instinct."

"But your instinct-" Ron started, then stopped immediately. "Er-, you can't-"

"What?" Harry demanded, angrily. "My instinct is what got Sirius killed, right? Go ahead, say it, Ron."

He swallowed. "That's not what I meant."

"He meant to just _be sure_ before you make any rash decisions. It could be a trick."

Harry frowned. Again, he knew they were right.

"And, Harry," Ron added. "Just, _involve_ us if you do. We could help."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I will. That's why I'm telling you this."

"Oh Harry," Hermione said, throwing a meaningful look at Ron. "We appreciate that."

Ron looked to her and then to Harry, realizing he was supposed to say something. "Yeah, right! We do. It's-yeah. Thanks for sharing, mate."

Harry tried not to roll his eyes. Ever since Voldemort had returned, Hermione and Ron seemed to tread lightly around Harry's feelings. He knew he shut them out-he shut _everyone_ out-but it annoyed him endlessly to watch his two best friends cast sympathetic looks in his direction. He did not like being treated like some delicate flower. He was more than capable of taking care of himself. He had proven that time and time again and, yet, it seemed that the more he had proved his independence, the more the people around him worried. The more they worried, the more Harry shut them out and the more he shut them out, the more they worried. It was an irritating cycle, and sometimes the only way to avoid it was to avoid his friends, altogether.

"But you don't think he's up to anything," Harry stated.

"He might be, Harry," Hermione offered gently. "But he might not be. It's not enough to say."

"It was always enough before."

"We're not twelve anymore, Harry," she added. Ron stared intently at the chessboard, looking like he was trying to disappear.

Harry wanted to cross his arms in front of his chest and storm out of the room, disproving Hermione's statement. Instead, he settled on huffing impatiently. "You'll see," he grumbled.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look as Harry scowled down at the chessboard.

....

....

....

Draco checked his reflection in the infirmary mirror before he left. He had his robes back, thank _Merlin_ , but he looked thinner and paler, if that was possible, than he had last week. The shadows under his eyes had grown steadily throughout the week and he looked like hell. He pulled his green knit hat over his bald spot and nodded at his disgusted looking reflection, which nodded cordially back.

Madame Pomfrey had lent him a burlap sack in which to carry his books. He had considered levitating them back, but she suggested that his magic might not be strong enough for that just yet. And because he didn't want his books falling all over the ground in front of everyone, he took her advice. She hadn't lied to him yet, even if he had lied to her.

Draco left the infirmary and stepped out into hallway. It was a shock to the system to see anything besides stone walls and bright, white linen bed-sheets and metal instruments and medical vials. He headed toward the Slytherin dungeons, breaking out in an almost immediate sweat. The walk alone was exhausting.

He paused outside of the Great Hall and pretended to adjust his belongings, but really he needed a second to catch his breath. That second was all it took for him to be spotted immediately by Pansy Parkinson, who charged at him like a bull and threw her arms around his neck. He stumbled back into the wall, unable to keep his balance.

"You're back!" she screeched, clinging to his neck, before suddenly recoiling and wiping her hands on the sides of her robes. "You aren't _contagious_ anymore, are you?" She wrinkled her pig nose.

Draco considered this for a moment. "I might be," he coughed loudly. She took a step back and made a face, muttering a cleaning charm on her arms and robes.

She shook her head. "I've never heard of anyone being in the hospital for a week for the _flu_ , but I guess it's true . . ."

Draco shrugged and raised his eyebrows. "It was pretty bad. But I toughed it out."

Her eyes shone with admiration. "You're so _brave_ ," she gushed.

"I try," he replied, stepping away from the wall and trying to at least _look_ like he could stand on his own two feet.

"You look like absolute shit, Draco," she commented, wrinkling her face again, her black hair hanging around her face.

"Well, for someone who nearly died . . ."

She gaped dramatically. "Died?" she asked in horror.

Draco bowed his head with the humble look of an injured war hero. "It's a miracle that I'm even standing here." He sighed. "Initially she thought I'd be a month at least. "

Pansy stopped and narrowed her eyes. "A month?" she asked, doubtfully.

Whoops. Maybe he'd pushed it a bit. But backing down now would admit defeat. "Hard to believe, I know." He coughed again and shook his head, sadly.

Draco was suddenly aware of two green owl eyes blinking at him skeptically. Harry Potter's arms were crossed as he leaned casually on the door frame of the Great Hall.

Pansy was still staring at him. "What kind of flu lasts a month?" she squawked.

Draco turned from her to sneer at Potter. He swallowed. Potter wouldn't tell. He swore. Loyalty through threats. And if he did...

"The, uh-" Draco began, scowling nervously and trying to ignore Potter. Potter took that moment to stride self-importantly into their conversation. Why couldn't he just _go away?_

"Eavesdropping as usual, Scarhead?" Draco hissed.

Potter flashed them both a big smile and rubbed his hands together, as if he were getting to work on an exciting project. Draco hated him. _Hated_ him.

"Thought I heard Pomfrey mention something about the Mediterranean Virus, right?" he commented, silkily.

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. "I wouldn't know. I don't make a habit out of spying on patients. Or other students who are having private conversations, of which I'm clearly not a part." What was Potter doing? Draco had thought for sure that Potter was going to rat him out. Or make some comment, especially after being called _Scarhead_ by an enemy in a conspicuous green hat. It was what _Draco_ would have done. But he was quickly realizing that was not a solid basis on which to form assumptions about Potter. Know thine enemy.

"Pretty sure that's what it was," Potter addressed Pansy, conversationally. She gave him a baleful look then looked to Draco for confirmation.

Not sure whether to be elated that Potter was defending him, or suspicious about his unpredictable behavior, Draco chose the middle road. He twisted his face up in confusion like something smelled bad. "Oh, chatted about my condition with the school nurse, did you?" Draco drawled. "Sounds to me like a breach of confidentiality."

Potter shrugged. "I overheard her," he replied, smoothly. "Might not have been about you."

Draco narrowed his eyes further. He wanted Pansy to think it _was_ him, obviously. Potter was good. Draco didn't like it. "Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't," he snarled at Potter.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Well, was it?" she demanded.

Damn. Potter had given him an easy out, and his pride had gotten in the way, as usual.

"Sorry, Pansy, if I'm not so keen on people discussing my private medical affairs, without my written consent."

Potter shrugged. "Whatever. Shove off, Malfoy," he added, casually.

"No- _you_ shove off!" Draco retorted, sounding like a six year old.

Potter grinned wider and sauntered off. He really was insufferable. The _worst_. The way he strutted about, _spying_ on everybody, never minding his own damn business, and acting like a brown-nosing know-it-all to top it off.

"Wow, Draco," Pansy said softly. "The Mediterranean Virus," she shook her head. "That's supposed to be really nasty."

The Mediterranean Virus. Where had Potter come up with _that_? The Idiot who Lived was never that quick on the uptake in class, but that had been a fine show of spontaneity, Malfoy grudgingly admitted.

"Yeah, well," he muttered. "I'm still not a hundred per cent."

"Like I said," she repeated. "You look like shit. What's the hat for anyway?"

"Uh, er," he stuttered, his hands flying protectively up to his head. "Cold head. You know, humans lose forty per cent of their body heat through their heads. Can never be too careful when you're getting over a virus."

She nodded. "Why don't you just use a warming spell?"

"Because then I wouldn't be making a fashion statement," he smirked, winking.

"Oh believe me," she smiled. "You're not."

He scowled and pulled his hat over his ears. "Bitch."

She pushed him in the chest and he tried to hold his balance. "You know you missed me."

It was true. He had. He momentarily forgot what he had hurried back _for_. The task. Draco silently cursed himself for wasting time, and felt the damned anxiety flood back instantly. "Yeah." He forced out a smile. " I missed all you arseholes, stuck in there with nothing but Pomfrey and a Potions textbook for company."

"And Potter."

"Yeah." _Ugh. Potter._ He hoisted his burlap sack back over his shoulder.

"Nice bag," she commented, making a rude, gagging sound. "Is that another fashion statement?"

He raised his eyebrows and tossed it about his shoulder coyly.

Pansy gave him another playful shove which nearly knocked the wind out of him. She really needed to stop doing that.

He straightened and gave her a smug look. "See you around, Pans."

She waved to him and loped off. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the walk back, slowing his pace down so that he was barely shuffling his feet.

Draco turned into the next corridor, a narrow dimly lit passageway that was lined interchangeably with large, metal suits of armor and torchlight. He followed his stunted shadow through the corridor, the burlap sack making a shapeless lump of a shadow where there should have been an angled shoulder.

_Shuffle, shuffle._

Draco kept his head straight ahead, peering to his side with only his eyes.

_Swish, swish._

Draco was now positive that he heard footsteps matching his own. His heart caught in his throat for moment, before he noticed a flash of tattered red trainers in his peripheral vision. He stopped and turned. The trainers vanished. He shook his head, certain he had seen them, his throat growing hot and dry. "You've got to be kidding me."

It appeared Draco was alone in the hallway, but he knew better than to trust appearances. He narrowed his eyes and lunged, suddenly, into thin air, in the direction of where he had spotted the trainers. He hit the ground with a crack and dropped his burlap sack of books. Draco cursed at the pain that shot through his arms and body. Desperate ire suddenly filled him and he pounded the stone floor with his bare hands. "Potter!" he gasped in a strangled voice. "You absolute _psychopath_! Stop following me!"

Feeling pained and furious and hating that he was being stared at by someone he couldn't see, Draco's mind flooded with red-hot rage. He could barely see in front of him. He was exhausted and he needed to get started on his task, but he could barely stay on his own two feet. Draco grabbed his burlap sack and dragged himself across the stone floor, crawling into a small space behind a knight, who grumbled and stepped aside for him.

"Pardon me," Draco muttered politely in a small voice, before curling up in the hole and crossing his arms like a confused, petulant child. He knew he looked like an idiot, but he couldn't even think anymore. He was really, _really_ teetering on the brink of madness.

He started shivering then, even though he didn't feel cold. He stared straight ahead of him. Maybe he _hadn't_ actually seen Potter's filthy shoes. Could he have imagined it? It seemed so real. Perhaps he really was alone. In which case, he was utterly deranged and it was all hopeless.

"Potter," he whispered from his upright fetal position, his arms wrapped around his knees. "Please. If you are here, please. I just-I just need to know."

The knight creaked as he turned to gaze at Draco through his faceless mask. Great. Even _suits of armor_ thought he was loony.

"I," he faltered. He was about to start begging. "I promise," he swallowed, pulling his wand out of his pocket, setting it on the floor and raising his hands in defeat. "I won't hex you. I just _need_ to know."

Nothing.

" _Please!_ " he squeaked. "No house points, just." He pulled his knees closer and stared at the empty hallway, his eyes wide. "This is insanity," he whispered into his arm.

Just then, a flash of red give way to dirty jeans and the rest of Potter as he pulled off his Invisibility Cloak, looking sheepish and worried.

"You son of a bitch," Draco croaked, overcome with relief.

Potter raised his hands up, defensively. "I-I wasn't following you!"

"Liar!" Draco hissed, still grasping his knees, too affronted to feel humiliated.

Potter stepped closer, but Draco wasn't moving. Potter scrunched his face up in concern and spoke quietly. "I mean it. I'm not going to tell you what I was doing, because it's not your business, but I wasn't following you."

Draco felt like he was going to cry or vomit.

"If I was, I wouldn't have just revealed myself. I didn't have to do that, you know."

_I wouldn't have_ , Draco thought to himself for what felt like the millionth time that week.

"Malfoy, are you okay?" Potter murmured, sounding like he was truly concerned.

Draco stared at his knees and spoke quietly. "Look at me carefully, Potter. Then tell me how you'd like me to answer that question."

Potter did stop then and looked. Draco's long, limber frame was folded up on a dirty stone floor as he hid behind a suit of armor. He was dressed in expensive robes, clutching a burlap sack with that out-of-place knit cap pulled over a gashed bald spot. He trembled, staring forward, refusing to meet Potter's pitying gaze.

Potter shook his head and took another step toward Draco. He extended one hand to him.

Draco stared at his hand for a moment like it was poison.

"Come on," Potter said. "I've seen you a lot worse than this."

Draco scowled, but he didn't have enough energy to protest. He tentatively released his knees and reached out one bone-white hand, holding it oddly in the air, fingers limp.

"Your freshly laundered robes are getting filthy," Potter added.

Draco sighed and took his hand, then, allowing Potter to pull him to his feet. When he did, he felt the blood rush to his head, and he staggered slightly, grasping at the knight to stay upright. The knight stayed still, however, and didn't make any noise.

Potter picked up Draco's burlap sack of books and handed it to him.

_Thanks_ , Draco thought, but his pride wouldn't allow him to speak. He grunted, mouth closed, instead.

They stood there, awkwardly for a moment, looking in opposite directions before Potter spoke.

"Whatever you have planned . . . " Potter steeled himself with a deep breath and looked away. "It's destroying you."

_Did he know? Could he know? Oh no, oh no, oh no . . ._

Potter looked at Draco then. Draco continued to stare at the wall, wild-eyed. His knees felt like they would give out on him any moment. His heart was pounding and threatening to explode out of his chest. His fingers clenched the knight's metal armor for dear life. Potter couldn't know. He just suspected. Draco slowly chanced a horrified look at Potter.

"Don't," Potter shook his head, softly. "Don't do it."

Suddenly Draco released his death grip on the knight and shoved Potter in the chest, hard. "You don't know anything!" he shouted, stumbling back and gasping. "You think you know everything, but you don't!"

"It's not too late-don't be an idiot!" Potter protested, anger quickly replacing the concern on his face.

Too late. _Too late?_ "That's not what you said before!" Draco yelled, confused.

"What?" Potter mouthed, before it hit him. "Oh, that damned dream, right?" He threw his arms up, exasperated. "Well, maybe that's what I meant!"

"You're not making any sense!" Draco shrieked, sweating. "You said it _was_ too late!"

Potter shook his head, unable to grasp the train of the conversation. "That wasn't _real_ , stupid! I'm telling you now that it's _not_ too late!"

Draco needed to leave. He needed to leave NOW. He was saying too much, but he wasn't sure he could stop. "You're wrong!" he yelled, suddenly pointing his wand at Harry. This conversation had to end, it HAD to stop. He took a deep controlled breath. "Leave me alone," he spoke low, trying to incite fear into Potter. "I mean it. Or I _swear_ to you, I'll-"

Potter, never one to back down—the damn fool, carried on. "Or you'll what? What, Malfoy?" he challenged, drawing his own wand on Draco.

Draco could hardly breathe. He looked at the steady wand in Potter's hand and the one shaking in his own. The walls were closing in on him. The hallway was growing dark, hot. Why didn't the stupid git understand? He had to go, he had to leave, he-

Draco let out an odd little moan as tears sprang to his eyes. Why the hell was he crying? Why did he have no fucking control over himself? He turned on his heel and began running down the hallway, away from Potter.

He made it into the next corridor and barely into the stairs that lead down to the dungeons before he collapsed, clutching for the railing in the staircase, and not finding one. Wait. This seemed familiar. But maybe there had never been a railing in the stairwell to the dungeons. He couldn't remember. No, of course there had never been a railing. Just like it wasn't too late.

But it _was_ too late! There was no turning back. With loyalty to the Dark Lord, Draco had everything to gain and nothing to lose. He had made his decision. Real Potter was wrong. Dream Potter was right. It _was_ too late.

Draco felt trapped. And confused. He needed help, but he was completely alone. Logically, he knew he wasn't going to be making any great strides on the Vanishing Cabinet that night, but that didn't stop the voice in his head from demanding that he _hurry, hurry, hurry._

With panicked clarity, he realized it was time for his second plan. Over the last several days in the infirmary, Draco had intensely researched incomplete charms, focusing on his new _favorite_ charm, The Sleeping Charm, _Somnicorpus_.

The Draught of Peace was completely out of the question, Madame Pomfrey had told him, until January, at least. He had to remain on a diet of white bread, rice and other bland foods until January as well. No alcohol. Which left Draco with one other option-a crass and self-administered sleeping charm that he had promised not to use for the remainder of his stay in the Infirmary.

The problem was, it was a _sleeping_ charm and Draco couldn't very well go around sleeping all the time. That had proven to be both unproductive and obvious. An incomplete charm, however, might do exactly what Draco wanted: Relax his body and mind, but leave him awake and coherent. If he could mold this balance to perfection, then he would never have to waste ingredients and time brewing relief potions.

He was slightly concerned about the high risk of dependency of which Madame Pomfrey had warned him, but as long as he got the balance right, then what would be the big deal? He wouldn't be sleeping all of the time and he could function normally, get work done and still wear himself out by bedtime. And if he couldn't, well, that's what a complete sleeping charm could be used for, should the need arise. But again, that was doubtful. Plus, this was all temporary until he was finished with his task, anyway. Then, back to normal.

Draco carefully threw a weak protective shield around himself, then, sitting on the cold, stone steps that lead down to the dungeons, he pointed his wand at himself and focused on _his_ desired effect.

" _Somnicorpus,"_ he said, impulsively. He felt the familiar warm buzz permeate through the shield and hit him in the chest. Now he just had to make sure he remained awake.

He felt his limbs tingle and relax and his mind meld into slow moving liquid. His lips parted as his jaw unclenched and he leaned against the wall of the stairwell, enjoying the omnipresent relaxation that the charm provided. He felt blood swell toward his groin, which would have been unusual had he not read that the sleep aids cause increased desire for sexual activity. He wasn't really sure why that mattered, though, when people fell asleep after receiving them. Everyone except for himself, of course, who was smart and cunning and reaping all of the benefits of this experimental charm without any of the consequences.

Draco gave a slight shake of his head. He felt relatively alert. Functional. A little off-caliber, kind of fuzzy, not very _sharp_ , but in control. Which was what he needed. Breathing a sigh of relief, and feeling particularly smug, he snatched up his burlap sack and made slow, controlled steps within a reasonable pace, all the way down the stairs toward the Slytherin Common Room.

....

....

....

"Hello?" A dark hand waved past his face. "Earth to Malfoy."

He blinked and looked up. He was perched, cross legged on a plush, green and silver couch in the Slytherin Common Room with the contents of his burlap sack strewn across his lap. He had been hunched over a piece of parchment, scribbling intently for the last half hour. Blaise was waving his hand in front of his face and laughing. Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy and Millicent Bulstrode, his usual study group, were also there, lounging on green couches in front of a warm fire with cups of tea and textbooks.

Draco chewed on his nail, disinterestedly. "Huh?"

Blaise and Pansy exchanged an amused look. "Draco," she clucked. "Are you with us?"

He yawned and stretched, tearing his eyes away from his genius sketches of the Vanishing Cabinet, ideas that had never occurred to him until then. Ideas that were _certain_ to work.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Distracted."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Yeah, that much is obvious."

"Draco, I hope you aren't chugging the Draught of Peace again," Pansy remarked, haughtily.

He grinned at her loosely and shook his head, his bangs falling over his veiled gray eyes. "Definitely not."

His gaze lingered on her for a few seconds longer until she shifted uncomfortably and narrowed her eyes. "Did Pomfrey give you cough syrup or something?"

Draco laughed. "Yeah, actually, she did." He looked back down at the parchment in his lap. "That must be it." He was in a good mood. He was exhausted, yes, but he could deal with his friends' comments. They had no idea what he had done, and wouldn't believe it anyway if someone told them. As if a _Malfoy_ would be dabbling in _sleeping charms_. It was laughable, albeit true . . .

Draco drew an arrow from the Vanishing Cabinet on his parchment to an algorithm he had been using to develop a theory for how the cabinet had been damaged in the first place. He had carefully combed through an advanced Arithmancy text and was now scribbling notes madly, trying to find a proof for the algorithm that would confirm his theory. He was on the brink of something _great_ , he just needed to focus. He had to write. He had to record his ideas, because they were coming to him in fleeting grasps, nearly complete, ephemeral thoughts that would be lost forever unless he got them on parchment before they vanished. He had the solution. He _knew_ he had it. He just needed to _find_ it, hone it, develop it-

"Draco!" Pansy shrieked, ripping the quill out of his hands.

He stilled, hand frozen as though the quill were still there, ready to fire away.

"The . . . the," he frowned, trying to remember the end of his last thought. It was escaping him quickly, as if he were trying to grasp the last remnants of a dream. And then it was gone. His genius idea. Gone.

"Damn it Pansy! I hope you're happy!" he scowled, snatching his quill back. "I lost my train of thought." He stood and stuffed his quill into his bag along with the rest of his books and scraps of parchment that were littered about, half complete ideas, torn and tossed away one by one as the tantalizingly close solutions continued to elude him.

"He's lost more than that . . ." Millicent remarked, loudly.

Draco dropped his burlap sack and his eyes flashed up at her. " _You're_ gonna lose more than that, you little bitch, if you don't . . . don't . . . if you don't," his mind went blank and he grabbed the arm of the couch to steady himself.

"Jesus Christ, Draco!" Pansy yelled. "What the hell is the _matter_ with you?"

His head was reeling with thoughts. He needed to sit down. He needed to sit. He dropped back onto the couch. No. He couldn't sit! Not here-he couldn't work here!

He jumped up again out of the seat as if stung. "Why does everyone keep _asking_ me that?" he hissed out of his protective cloud, as if only just recognizing the question. "I- you know!" he huffed, continuing to jam his books back into his sack. "There are more important things than the mindless prattle you dingbats wail on about! And-and cups of _tea!_ People are dying!"

"What?" Blaise asked, horrified.

"Who's dying?" Crabbe looked scared.

"Draco, what in the _hell_ are you talking about?"

He felt his shoulders being shaken violently by Pansy and recoiled, trying to wrestle out of her grasp. "Let!" he struggled, trying to pry her hands off him. "Let _go_ of me, you bovine bitch!"

"Get a hold of yourself!" She smacked him across the face. He saw red and then black and then the red and black blended together and dripped through his field of vision. He couldn't see, couldn't think. He knew he was moving, but he had no idea what was happening.

"What the _fuck?"_ Draco felt two sets of strong arms holding him back. He kicked, flailing his legs in the air. Crabbe and Goyle, _his_ minions, had just felt it necessary to restrain him from a girl. As if a _Malfoy_ would ever attack a woman.

He looked at Pansy then. She looked scared. Not mad. Truly terrified. Of _him._ Draco had never seen that look on her face before in his life. Then, in the ultimate, most traitorous move, Crabbe and Goyle threw him down to the floor in disgust.

Draco sat, stung, on the floor, dusting off his trousers, unable to look any of them in the eye. He felt a lump rise in his throat and swallowed hard. "What just happened?"

"Too far, Draco," Crabbe muttered. Draco could only see his boots and hulking shadow.

"I think you'd better go," Goyle added. He stepped past Draco then and stood in front of Pansy, as if protecting her from him.

Draco sniffed. He was embarrassed and confused and hurt. To his complete mortification, a tear rolled down his face and he had to wipe it off or it would have dripped onto the floor. "Fuck. Fine." He grabbed his burlap sack and headed for his dorm.

His voice was hardly more than a whisper, but in the uncomfortable silence that had fallen across the Slytherin Common Room, the remark was unmistakable.

"Sorry."

When Draco reached his dorm room for the first time in a week, he conducted a sloppy silencing charm, then threw himself face first onto his four-poster and sobbed himself to sleep.

....

....

....

"Shit. _Shit!"_ Harry muttered frantically, throwing bottle after bottle on the floor of the Potions classroom. He needed something-it _had_ to be here, but he didn't know what he was looking for, only that it was urgent.

The sound of footsteps pounding on stone drew his attention and he jerked his head up and squinted. Through the darkness of the corridor on his left, he could just make out white blonde hair and knew immediately that _this_ was the reason he was searching the cabinet. Something to do with Malfoy.

"Potter?" he heard Malfoy's voice, still far away.

"Malfoy?" Harry could hardly see him, but he could still make out that silly green, knit hat that he refused to take off.

As Malfoy approached the door tentatively, he looked to his left and to his right. "Potter, I'm only going to ask once. Is it-?"

"No!" Harry said, suddenly realizing where he was. "It's _not_ too late. I meant that."

"Then-then. . .".

The edges of the dream began growing soft and folding in on them.

"Say it, Malfoy!" Harry yelled, not sure why he felt such urgency. He looked up to where the walls of the Potions classroom were melting around him.

Through the melting room, Harry could see Malfoy point his wand directly at Harry. Then he turned it on himself. Squinting, he turned it back to Harry. " _Ennervate,"_ he whispered.

Malfoy was melting now, with the dream, fuzzily dispersing images.

"But, that didn't do anything to me! It's not working . . ." Harry protested, confused.

"Then maybe it _is_ too late." Malfoy's voice was all that was left as the dream faded completely.

....

....

....

Harry awoke, his room was still dark with the static silence that characterized the witching hour. This was the most stunned he had felt by a dream without his scar hurting. He could still hear Malfoy's voice, as though he had just spoken, had leaned over his four-poster and whispered it in his ear. _Then maybe it is too late._ Harry couldn't be sure if it had been his _own_ dream, inspired by Malfoy's raving, or if _somehow_ he, himself, had just been in Malfoy's dream. It wouldn't be the first time someone had entered his mind unwillingly, but it might have been the first time they had done it unknowingly. Harry shook off the feeling of unease. It had definitely not seemed like a normal dream.

Harry curled onto his side and pulled his red quilt up to his chin. He fell back into a drifting, fitful sleep until he awoke a few hours later, exhausted and moody.

Harry and Ron were chatting over breakfast in the Great Hall when they noticed Lavender and Parvati shaking their heads, disgusted.

"And the monster just put his hands right around her neck as if to choke her!" Lavender clucked disapprovingly.

Parvati shook her head. "Well, what more can you expect out of someone coming from _his_ family? I'm sure hitting women is a favorite pastime over at the Manor."

Lavender nodded. "You see the way the mother cowers every time that cold bastard looks at her."

Nodding, Parvati took a sip of her tea. "Still. I can't believe he'd do it. I mean, I always knew Malfoy was a git but-"

Harry choked on his toast and looked up suddenly. "I'm sorry," he spluttered. "Are you saying Malfoy attacked some girl?"

"Pansy Parkinson," Parvati nodded solemnly. "He shoved her last night and then tried to choke her."

Harry pounded on his chest to dislodge the stuck toast. "He did _what?"_

"Not that hard to believe," Ron said coldly, glaring in the direction of the Slytherin table even though Malfoy wasn't there. Pansy and Blaise were there, however, in heated conversation.

"But, but he _loves_ Pansy!" Was Harry just riled up because he had dreamt of Malfoy recently or was it something else? Why was he so distressed?

"Well, as Lavender was saying, some families show their 'love' in despicable ways," Parvati snipped, stirring at her tea and wrinkling her nose.

Harry gaped at them both. "I just find it really hard to believe. I mean, I know he's a complete shite to me, but it seems he would somehow have more dignity than that. You're insinuating that he beats Parkinson into submission?"

The girls shrugged.

"I don't know, it doesn't add up."

"We overhead Millicent Bulstrode telling Daphne Greengrass," Lavender added, as though Millicent were a reliable source. "Apparently Crabbe and Goyle got involved. They threw Malfoy to the floor." The girls exchanged a mildly amused look.

Ron gasped. " _They_ turned against _him?"_ His eyes widened comically. "I can't believe it!" He looked around for agreement. "Can you believe it, Harry?"

Harry frowned. Something seemed extremely odd about it all. His Gryffindor mind asked why Malfoy would ever do something to hurt Pansy, whom he cared about. His Slytherin mind asked why Malfoy would do something that would intentionally turn his Slytherin comrades against him when he was facing a task for Voldemort. Without Slytherin support, Malfoy was _completely_ alone. Judging by his behavior yesterday in the hallway, first jovial with Pansy and then desperate and pathetic with Harry, it seemed that Malfoy would need the backing of his ragtag criminal comrades more than ever.

"Do you think this has something to do with," Ron cut his voice to a whisper, "with his _task?"_ His eyebrows nearly floated off his freckled face.

"Oh, _now_ you believe me?" he whispered back.

"I always believed you, Harry."

"Well, actually, I find this odd. It doesn't add up. If he was planning to do something for Voldemort, why would he piss off all the children of the Death Eaters?"

Ron shrugged. "Search me how a deranged, criminal mind works. Maybe he's trying to keep _everyone_ away. It's a war. And Slytherins aren't exactly trustworthy."

Ron had a point. But still. Why would he physically attack a woman to keep his friends away? Though, apparently, it was working. Harry looked across to the entrance of The Great Hall where Malfoy had sulked in alone. He was wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up over his head, but Harry could detect the edge of his green cap sticking out and felt a pang of … something . . . weird.

Malfoy made his way to the outermost edge of the Slytherin table where he reached out one skeletal, pale hand, snatched up a piece of toast and placed it on a napkin. He quickly poured himself a cup of coffee and didn't wipe the spill when it splashed over the edge. The second he topped his coffee with cream, Malfoy hastily sulked back out of the door with his coffee and toast on a napkin. Not a single Slytherin acknowledged him, though students at the other tables were conspicuously whispering about him and casting him disgusted looks.

"Ron, I'll be back," Harry said suddenly, feeling an invisible tug to follow the blonde. Ron rolled his eyes.

"Stalker."

Harry glared at Ron. "Shut up." Leaving his toast half eaten and his teacup nearly empty, Harry hurried after Malfoy.

A hooded, cloaked figure carrying toast was heading toward the dungeons. Harry jogged up alongside him. The figure, sensing the approach, visibly tensed.

"Malfoy," Harry said quickly, so the volatile Slytherin wouldn't have another nervous breakdown about being followed.

The figure let out a frustrated huff and began walking faster through the corridor with the knights from the day before.

....

....

....

"Malfoy-stop!" Potter commanded.

"No," Draco muttered, speeding up. "So you can tell me what a monster I am, too? No thanks."

"Er-about that-"

"No. NOTHING about that. We're not _talking_ about that. In fact," he cut a quick corner, trying to dodge Potter. "We're not talking at all. " Draco silently cursed the obvious contradiction, wishing to insult Potter and not the English language, which he held in such high regard.

"I don't know if you're a monster," Potter replied, jogging to keep up with Draco's long, ambitious strides. "What I do know is that you would never intentionally hurt Pansy."

"Well, apparently you don't know what I'm capable of then, do you Potter?" His voice was hoarse. "Because apparently I _would_ intentionally hurt her." He faltered, and his pace slowed almost imperceptibly.

"Apparently?" Potter asked, picking up on the repetition of that word.

"Yes, apparently. Apparently that is what happened. Apparently . . ." his voice trembled, but he pushed on, not looking at Potter.

"You don't . . . you don't, er, remember?"

Draco said nothing, just stormed ahead, his toast crushed in his death grip, his cloak billowing behind him. When he reached the staircase, he pounded down the steps, praying that he wouldn't hear Potter's footsteps pounding the stone behind him, but in accordance with Murphy's Law, that was exactly what he heard. The git was completely dense. If he couldn't take a hint then Draco would resort to force. He stopped, spun around and grabbed Potter around the throat, pinning him against the wall. His coffee cup shattered to the floor, splashing coffee onto his boots. Potter looked too shocked to react and just stared at him. Draco's hood had slipped off, his face wild, his mouth twisted grotesquely.

"Did your dead parents bash your head in as a baby?" Draco was livid. He pounded Potter's head against the stone for emphasis and Potter's glasses fell off his face as he struggled for breath. Strangulation was fast becoming Draco's new defense, it seemed. "Did the Dark Lord drop you repeatedly on your scar, you brainless bastard? I _don't_ want to talk to you. I don't _like_ you. What, you think now that, that," he was fuming, incoherent. "Now that that they-that I'll just come confide all of my feelings in _you_? We're not friends! We will _never_ be friends! I don't know why you insist on pathetically trying to save me like everyone else. I'm not your fucking pet project. Go save your Mudblood friends. I daresay, they'll need all the protection they can get soon enough." Draco felt dizzy, but forged ahead, anyway, lost in his raving. "We are enemies, Potter. Enemies. That will never change. In fact, I plan on doing everything in my power to make sure we remain enemies. And if you keep following me, I will personally make your sad life more of a living hell than it already is. And that is a fucking _promise._ "

Potter let out a strangled moan. His arms scrabbled desperately to free himself from Draco's chokehold.

Drunk with power and blind rage, Draco narrowed his eyes and leaned into Potter's face. "And just so we're clear," he spoke slowly, his voice having finally returned to its sardonic drawl. "What happened last night doesn't even come close to what you let happen to that blood-traitor mutt of yours." Draco sneered. "Yeah, my father told me. Still smiling right into death. Filthy dog must have thought Bella was playing a game of fetch with him. Mistook the wand for a bone." He laughed in his face, knowing he was going to sick up if he didn't get back to his room. He felt ill. Potter made him act this way. Potter truly brought out the worst in him.

Draco reached into Potter's pocket and snatched his wand. "Like godfather, like godson," he snarled. "Fetch."

Draco lobbed Potter's wand up the staircase, where it ricocheted off the stone and disappeared above them. Draco released his chokehold on Potter and the boy collapsed into shards of broken ceramic and coffee, gasping for breath. Draco kicked him in the stomach for good measure, then took off running like a coward the rest of the way to the Slytherin dorms. Potter's spluttering chokes echoed through Draco's mind as he hid in his bed, chewing tasteless handfuls of squished, toast crumbs in silence.

....

....

....

Harry recovered moments later, head reeling with lack of oxygen and stomach burning. Malfoy obviously held no esteem for the phrase "Don't kick a man when he's down." Clutching his stomach, Harry snatched his glasses off the floor and dragged himself up the staircase to find his wand. Ron was right. Following Malfoy had been a stupid idea. What had he been thinking? They _weren't_ friends. They would never be friends. He hated Malfoy, _loathed_ him. His hatred for Voldemort was nowhere near the passionate hatred he felt for Malfoy. Voldemort, he could handle, awful as he was. Malfoy made his blood boil.

Embarrassment mixing with hatred, Harry continued to silently chastise himself. How stupid was he? Did he honestly think Malfoy _needed_ him? That he would appreciate Harry's concern? Helping the git when he was unconscious was one thing, but as long as Draco Malfoy was coherent and breathing air, he was a spiteful, racist, heartless fuck and Harry had stupidly let his guard down and convinced himself that he could _help_ him. Maybe it was that stupid dream he had. It had to have been. It had clouded his perception, made him think Malfoy wanted his help. Fuck him. Malfoy had no one now. Which was probably what he wanted. It was certainly what he deserved.

Harry retrieved his wand and felt his breathing return to normal as he staggered up the stairs.

Try as he might to convince himself that Draco Malfoy was nothing more than an abusive monster, he still didn't buy it. Malfoy didn't know what had happened last night and he was scared. Whatever he did to Parkinson was _not_ intentional and Harry knew it. For some inconceivable reason, he hoped Malfoy knew it, too, but figured the prat was probably brooding alone, uncertain and self-destructive.

As he reached the top of the staircase, still clutching his stomach, he bumped head first into Ron.

"Oi, Harry!" he cried, rubbing his forehead and stumbling back. He looked closely at Harry who was bent over, holding his stomach and trying to control his wheezing gasps. Ron's eyes widened in anger. "Harry," he said slowly. "What happened? It was Malfoy, wasn't it? What did that git do to you?"

"He," Harry's voice was ragged and hoarse. "I," he let out a rattling cough and braced himself on the wall. "I'm fine, Ron. It was stupid. I shouldn't have gone after him."

"I'll kill him," Ron seethed. He balled his hands up into fists. He glanced at Harry again. "You think I'm kidding?"

"I didn't say-"

"I'm not kidding," Ron continued, working himself into a frenzy. "The next time I see him, Harry. He thinks he can just _attack_ people and get away with it? No. _Fuck_ no. And now he's hitting _girls?_ Even if it is that cow, Parkinson. She didn't deserve it. You didn't deserve it. But he'll get what _he_ deserves. Even if I'm the one who has to give it to him." Ron clenched his fists and glared.

"Calm down, Ron!" Harry rasped. "He's not-"

" _Worth_ it, Harry?" His eyes stared off in the distance, as if imagining all the things he would do to Malfoy. "Yeah, _he_ might not be. But _it_ would be worth it. Getting him. Really getting him, Harry. After all these years, someone needs to show him-"

"Seriously Ron," Harry said. _"You_ don't have to give it to him. He will get what's coming. I know it. I believe it. It's happening already, if you think about it." _Was_ it? Was this the beginning of the end for dear old Malfoy? The thought was oddly unsettling. An image of Malfoy in the infirmary flitted through Harry's mind. He was laughing in uncontrolled mirth with his green knit cap pulled snugly over his bald spot. It made Harry want to smile. It made him feel strangely protective. "You don't need to lower yourself."

"I want to." His hands were still in fists, but his face was beginning to relax.

"I don't want you to." Harry spoke seriously and looked at Ron. "In fact, I forbid you."

He scoffed. "You _forbid_ me? Right, Harry." But he grinned then and the two walked back through the corridor of knights toward The Great Hall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I love reviews!

After his last foray into the Great Hall, Draco wouldn't foolishly risk leaving his bed unless it was completely necessary. His toast crumbles breakfast had filled him up for about seven and half minutes until his stomach began to grumble loudly. He'd thought about his stash of expensive, gourmet chocolates in his bedside drawer, but knew that Pomfrey's diet of bland whites would not allow it. Come to think of it, it was a good thing he had dropped his coffee earlier. He was in such a habit of starting the day with a cup, Draco had completely forgotten about his new organ-friendly diet, one day into it.

As he whiled away the hours, avoiding the burlap sack stuffed with algorithms and proofs, he decided to kill two birds with one stone and practice transfiguring excess items into food.

He dumped a sack of sickles and knuts onto his bed. Sorting the knuts from the sickles, he felt that the English language would appreciate a transfiguration pun and spent the next hour transforming knuts into nuts and eating them, one by one. He couldn't think of anything better in which to transfigure the sickles, so he turned those into nuts, too. After about twenty minutes of this mind-numbing and unfulfilling meal, it dawned on him that he was _eating money._ He started laughing. How nice it is to be so rich, he thought sarcastically. Then he felt guilty for laughing and stopped. A small pile of uneaten nuts remained on his bed. He lounged back into a pile of pillows propped up against the bedpost and began to levitate the nuts and flick them against the thick, silver curtains of his four-poster that had been charmed into army-grade, rock hard, impenetrable walls. The nuts bounced off the curtains, making a slight _ping_ sound before landing on the bed again, sitting ducks, to be unceremoniously flung again and again.

He was completely disgusted with himself. He truly could not remember what he had done to Pansy. He had overheard something about putting his hands around her neck, but it just seemed so odd and unlikely. But maybe what they were saying was true. Maybe he _was_ a monster. Only a monster could justify cold-blooded murder, which was exactly what he had planned in the upcoming year. Oh, yes, it was a _war_ , he had told himself night after sleepless night. People died in wars. It was expected. But Draco knew better. He was plotting a premeditated murder. A man _would_ die at Draco's hands. He just wasn't sure how it was going to happen.

His stomach lurched suddenly and he lowered his wards, snatching a dustbin from outside of his bed. He threw up knuts and sickles and silently chastised himself for how stupid he was to eat coins when he wasn't even allowed butter for his bread.

He conducted a cleaning spell, and dropped, exhausted and clammy to his bed to sleep off his internal coin damage and lingering guilt. It occurred to him that he was the cause of his own problems. Feeling more pathetic without someone to blame, he decided to lay unfounded blame on Harry Potter. Just because.

His body itched uncomfortably but he didn't have the energy or wherewithal to toss and turn. He just wanted to sleep for a year, wake up and have this all be a distant nightmare. But sleep wasn't going to come to Draco. Not without some help.

" _Somnicorpus_ ," he muttered, barely opening his mouth. And instantly, all was well in the world as the edges in his vision softened and curled away and Draco eased into a deep, comfortable sleep.

....

....

....

Waking up early plus a light, afternoon beating had left Harry feeling sleepy. He parted from Ron to take a quick nap in his dorm. Collapsing onto his bed, still dressed and wearing his trainers, Harry made a weak attempt at Occlumency, if only to erase Malfoy's sneering grin out of his head, but he couldn't focus. Head swimming, he watched the restless images passively until he drifted into a suspended state of half-sleep.

"Potter," he heard a familiar drawl. The image of his dream was not yet solidified, it was only sound. But he knew that voice.

"You're here," the voice laughed. "Of course you are."

"What do you want, Malfoy?" his mind asked. "Are you doing this on purpose? Is this real?"

"Patience, Potter. So many questions!" Malfoy snickered. "Is this on purpose? As if I would _intentionally_ seek you out? I thought we went over that."

Harry was getting annoyed. "Is it real?"

"Quite."

"Okay, then what do you want?"

Malfoy sighed as the Potions classroom and the blonde suddenly swam into view. "To not ask you for help." He shook his blonde head and crossed his arms.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Then _don't_. Because I wouldn't help you, anyway."

"That's too bad," he remarked offhandedly. "Because I need you to. Like seriously. Right now," he laughed. "But you're busy sleeping, of course. And you say you wouldn't help me anyway."

Harry tried to pick through his cryptic messages. "What are you saying? Are you asking me for help?"

Malfoy scoffed. "As if I'd _ever_ ask you for help." He took a step toward Harry. "No, I'm merely letting you know, since we're both _here_ and all, that I need it. Help, that is. Right now. This second, in fact."

Harry shook his head. "Why should I help you after what you just did to me?"

Malfoy looked sad. "You shouldn't. I wouldn't. But, I'm beginning to see you aren't much like me." He turned to walk away. "It's up to you. But, do you really want another death on your conscience?"

Was Malfoy serious? Was he in a life or death situation at that second? Could Harry trust his dream? Could he trust _Malfoy?_ "What should I do?"

He smirked. "Float instead of sink, I hope."

Harry shook his head. "I don't-"

"Understand?" Malfoy asked, just a voice again. "Sure you do. Very urgent, though. Really."

The dream curled up and faded away and Harry woke with a start. He was still confused and partially asleep, but he hopped out of bed and grabbed his wand. He began to run, feeling completely disoriented. _Sink or Float?_ He needed to find a place with water. Was Malfoy in the Prefect's bathroom?

Harry thundered down the stairs and ran to the Prefect's Bathroom, whispering the password Diggory had given him fourth year. He stumbled into a room full of steam and bumped into a partially nude Blaise Zabini.

_Did Zabini do something to Malfoy_? "Did, er-"

"What the _fuck_ are you doing in here?" Zabini shouted, grabbing for a towel. "Filthy pervert!" His eyes were wild.

"Is-are you all alone in here?" Harry asked through his sticky sleep mouth. His glasses fogged into two large circles and he held his hands out, blindly searching for Malfoy, and bumping into steamy, wet Zabini by accident.

" _What?_ Get the fuck out!" Blaise shouted, shoving him. "You little creep, I'm taking a bath!"

Harry stumbled blindly out of the Prefect's bathroom and shook his head, trying to orient himself and clear the fog from his stupid glasses. No, he was pretty sure that Zabini was _not_ hurting Malfoy in there.

_Sink or float, sink or float,_ he thought, knowing that if it were an emergency he was running out of time.

Then it came to him. _The lake_.

Harry, feeling slightly more awake, began to sprint toward the front doors. He vaguely heard the voice of Argus Filch yell, "No running!" but he was out of the building so quickly, the words were a memory before they were even formed.

Harry could hardly feel the pain in his stomach from his earlier attack as he pounded over the lawn toward the lake. The sky was overcast and his skin felt cool and wet after being in the steamy bathroom. He stumbled up to the edge of the water and surveyed it quickly.

In the middle of the lake, balanced precariously on a floating, mossy log, was Draco Malfoy, wearing only green pajama bottoms and trying to stand up. He wobbled and grasped the log with his arms and legs as it tilted dangerously from side to side. Then he braced himself to stand again.

Confusion swarmed Harry's mind. _What was he doing?_

"Malfoy! What in the _hell-?"_

Malfoy looked in Harry's direction and smiled, his features loose and mocking.

"Look. Look, Potter," he giggled and lost his balance again, the log swaying as Malfoy scrambled to stay afloat. "Itsa Malfoy Feint! 'Betcha don' have yr'own Quidditch moves, mmm? P'thetic," he slurred. "Shall y'have a go then?"

Just then Malfoy tried to leap into a standing position on the log. He slipped on the moss and cried out as his legs flew from under him. His head cracked on the back of the mossy log and he sunk down into the murky waters of the lake, eyes shutting as the water closed quickly over his head.

Without thinking, Harry plunged into the frigid lake, fully clothed. He dove under the surface and forced his eyes open, despite the burn of the dirty lake water. Malfoy was sinking through the depths of the lake, making no attempt to swim or struggle.

Running out of air, Harry kicked furiously to the surface, took a deep, gasping breath and dove once more, paddling wildly towards Malfoy's drifting form as it sank lower and lower.

Harry reached the middle of the lake, grasped Malfoy around his bare torso and struggled to pull his limp body out of the heavy waters. Kicking until his legs felt numb and his muscles were screaming, Harry and Malfoy broke the surface of the lake. Malfoy choked and a gurgling of water poured out of his mouth, but his eyes stayed closed.

"God," Harry gasped as he swam towards the shore, "Fucking . . . shit." The obscenities flowing from his mouth made little sense.

He dragged Malfoy over the muddy embankment and knelt over him as he sucked in ragged, watery breaths. Harry pushed on his chest, pumping furiously, not really knowing what to do, but thinking it made sense. Malfoy choked up another lungful of water.

"Malfoy?" he yelled. Malfoy opened one eye, squinting.

"Did Hooch call th'game?" he groaned, trying to sit up and rubbing the back of his head. "I think'm okay. Not gonna let Huf'flepuff take th'cup."

"What is _with_ you?" Harry asked slowly, unsure of what to do next. Then it dawned on him. Malfoy had reached him in his dream. In _his_ dream.

"You're asleep . . ."

Malfoy tried to sit up again and shook his head. "'M not, 'm not. 'M up. Swear it." He crossed his fingers and laughed, smiling sweetly at Harry. Harry's heart jumped for a moment. He had never seen Malfoy actually _smile_ before. Smirk, yes. But a genuine, albeit demented smile? Harry shook off the odd feeling and knelt over Malfoy, trying to figure out what to do next. He couldn't just leave him. He didn't want to drag him and Malfoy would kill him if he levitated him over the grounds.

Malfoy smiled wider and blinked. Then he reached out a hand and softly stroked Harry's cheek. Harry froze and stared at him. "Thanks, Potter," he whispered. "'Knew you'd come." Then his eyes rolled up slowly and he was asleep, a smile still lingering on his face.

Harry turned away from him and sat, wrapping his arms around his knees and shivering. This had to have something to do with whatever was going on in the hospital wing that day. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what Pomfrey had said. It was a _sleeping charm_ and Malfoy had self-administered it. What had she said to wake him up? It was so easy, it was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't think of it.

He remembered Malfoy in his dream, pointing his wand at him.

Harry's eyes flashed open and he grabbed his wand, thankfully, still in his robe pocket. Malfoy looked so peaceful, lying there contentedly, his white chest glinting in the scant sunlight, just a ghost of a smile left on his lips. Harry was hesitant to disturb him.

No. _No._ This was not normal. This sleep was not normal. Harry pointed his wand at Malfoy. " _Ennervate!"_

Then he braced himself for what was sure to be a horrible reaction.

Malfoy's face scrunched up and he squirmed on the ground, stretching. His hands brushed his soaking wet pajama bottoms and his eyes flew open with a whimper as he took in his surroundings. Malfoy quickly scrambled away from the edge of the embankment into a sitting position, his face horrified, his eyes darting around.

"Wh-wha-," he choked, letting out a rattling cough. Then his eyes fell on Harry, who still had his wand pointed at him. Malfoy's hands flew instinctively to his pockets, as he felt around for a wand he didn't have. "Y-You!" he spluttered, looking terrified, his eyes round.

Harry shook his head. "You're a fucking moron," he stated simply.

"Y-you tried to _drown_ me?" he accused, baffled. "I kick you in the side and you drag me out here t-to finish me off?" He noticed his scantily clad self and his jaw dropped in horror. "And _rape_ me?"

At this, Harry let out a loud guffaw. " _Rape_ you? You're kidding me, right?"

Malfoy's eyes watered as he fell into a series of incessant, rattling coughs. He shook his head, unable to speak, his face turning red. Harry seized his opportunity.

"You have to stop whatever this is with you and the sleeping charms," Harry said, calmly.

Malfoy's eyes lost some of their fury as his coughing fit died down. He stared coldly at his rescuer.

"I'm quite aware that you're going to want to blame me for this,' Harry continued, " and then yell about how I have a hero complex, but, Malfoy, if I hadn't have come here, you would have drowned yourself."

"But," he protested weakly. "But I was just . . . sleeping."

"Sleep _walking,"_ Harry corrected him. "There's a surprisingly morbid difference."

Malfoy shivered and wrapped his arms around his knees, copying Harry. "And I suppose you followed me out here, on one of your daily Draco Malfoy stalkings?"

Harry shook his head. "No. _You_ followed _me._ "

Malfoy gave him a blank stare.

"You asked me for help," Harry said softly. "Or, rather, you told me that you were not asking me for help but if I ignored you I would have to live with another death on my conscience."

Malfoy frowned at his knees. "I don't understand."

"In my dream. I was taking a nap and there you were, forcing your weird little Potions-classroom dream on me again-"

"What?" he gasped.

"You keep entering my dreams!" Harry sounded suddenly desperate. " _Why_ do you keep doing that?"

Malfoy blinked and shook his head. "I-I didn't know I was," he murmured.

"You know," Harry exhaled, annoyed, then softened his voice. "You tell me you don't want my help. Then you keep coming into my mind, seeking _me_ out, and asking me for help."

"No," he choked.

"I mean, what am I supposed to think? At first I thought it was just a dream, but then you told me to come here, sort of, and I mean, this pretty much confirms it. Somewhere in your subconscious, you're asking me for help. Despite what you say about us being enemies-"

"We _are_ enemies, Potter," he growled.

"Yes, you _say_ that but,-"

Malfoy was suddenly riled up. "No! That's not fair-you don't get to decide how I feel just because you had some psychic dream or something!"

"You know that's not it," Harry pointed out calmly. He shivered and picked up a rock, tossing it lazily in the lake. "Do you remember it?"

Malfoy closed his eyes hard, as if trying to summon the dream back. After a moment, he opened his eyes and shook his head. Then nodded. Then tilted it from side to side.

"Well?" Harry asked, tossing a handful of pebbles into the lake. They splashed softly making a fizzy, tinkling sound.

"I don't know," he conceded. "Maybe."

Harry sat still for a moment. "Did you dream about Quidditch?"

Malfoy whipped his head to look at him and widened his eyes. "Since when are you Seer? Or have you been getting into Trelawney's knickers?"

Shocked by the crude comment, Harry snorted with laughter. "No? What? Ew!"

Malfoy's eyes were crinkled in the corner.

"And if I had, I'd be no better at divination. Now, maybe if I got into a centaur's—er—knickers, then—"

"Potter, stop. Right now," he held up a hand to silence him and the corner of his mouth twitched, oddly. "Urgh," he shuddered, then turned back to look at Harry. "How did you know, then?"

"Because, well, I raced down here after sleeping-well, no, I actually went to the Prefect's Bathroom first because all you did was give me some cryptic "sink or float" message, but when I went in there I saw Zabini taking a bath. For a second I thought he had hurt you, you know since, well, never-mind, you know. Anyway, you weren't there so I came here and you were out in the middle of the lake trying to stand on a log, going on about the 'Malfoy Feint—'"

Malfoy cringed, his cheeks reddening. "' _Malfoy Feint?'"_

"And you were teetering about out there and then you slipped and hit your head and went under—"

He cast his eyes toward the darkening lake. "But, I can't swim," he croaked, shaking his head, his fingernails digging into the dirt at his sides as if bracing himself there.

"Well, after you got out, you wanted to know if Madame Hooch called the game," Harry offered, pointlessly.

Malfoy frowned; his cheeks were bright red. He shifted uncomfortably. "How'd you say I got out?"

Harry looked down at his own soaking clothes and Malfoy followed his gaze.

"Oh," he muttered. "Right." And then, barely moving his mouth, "Thanks."

Harry looked at him and nodded, but didn't say anything. For some reason, he flushed with warmth after hearing that minimal concession of gratitude. It bothered him that Malfoy kept getting himself in these situations. Harry didn't know a lot mind-altering potion and charms, but it seemed like Malfoy was using them as a crutch and developing a problem. Harry wouldn't feel right if he didn't confront him.

"Listen Malfoy," Harry began. "It's not my business-"

"Then don't ask."

"-and I'm sure you're going to get all defensive and then attack me like you usually do, but, what's with this sleeping charm thing?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and stared at his feet. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Harry spoke softly. It was hard to keep his tone from sounding accusatory. "Like I said in the hospital, I don't know why I give a shite about you, Malfoy. I shouldn't. But I do. Maybe it's because you're haunting my dreams or-"

"Or maybe it's because you're a goody-goody hero Gryffindor—"

"Yeah," he cut him off. " _Maybe_. I don't know and it doesn't really matter. But, this has to stop. It's _dangerous_. You knew that, and now you're seeing it. There is no reason to be charming yourself out in the middle of the afternoon, but I shouldn't have to explain that to you. And I'm sure you're going to jump down my throat, but I'll wager to bet that whatever happened last night with Parkinson . . . that, that there's a _reason_ you don't remember it, just like you don't remember this." He gestured to the lake.

"None of this is your business, Potter."

"No, you're right, it's not. But you still need to hear it."

Malfoy's eyes flashed momentarily, then looked pained. "I don't know where you get off telling other people what is best for them, but—"

"So, I'm wrong then?" Harry challenged. "You mean to tell me you can sit here and say that using this Sleeping Charm has led to loads of positive decision making on your part? That it's _harmless_ and that it is your business because _no one else_ has gotten hurt?"

"No," Malfoy said in a small voice. "I'm not saying that. Obviously. But, you don't know everything. And I've figured out a way to be functional while on it and-"

"What?" Was Malfoy crazy? " _Why_ would you want to do that?"

"Because it makes me feel better! Okay?" Malfoy shouted, snatching up a rock and throwing it at the log in the lake. His cheeks burned red. "Merlin! Why did you think?"

"But, you act like a complete lunatic on it, Malfoy! Stumbling all over the place, not making sense!"

Malfoy's flush deepened. "That's why I developed a way to make the charm incomplete, so I can _function_ on it and still get the effects. Not today! Today I was just trying to sleep. This was just regular sleepwalking, that's why I was so out of it. But last night—"

"Last night. I knew you used it last night!"

"Shut up! I made it incomplete, but something obviously went wrong—"

"Yeah, your brain! You can't outsmart a charm, you arse!"

"Well, I _did. Now_ who's the arse?"

"You! Because you "apparently" went out of control on it!"

Malfoy's face twisted up and his voice shook. "I didn't mean to-I didn't, I don't even _know_ what I did and no one will tell me and-"

Harry was shocked when he heard a kind of choked sob. Malfoy had tucked his head into the crook of one arm and he appeared to be biting himself. He made little whimpering noises as his shoulders shook. Harry couldn't believe it. Malfoy was crying-again! What had happened to the cold-hearted, callous git who strut about campus with his nose in the air? Something was seriously wrong. Harry wanted to say something or do something to make him stop.

_Why did he_ care _?_

No, it wasn't that he cared. It was just . . . weird. Malfoy, crying like that again. It was weird and Harry didn't like it. That was all.

Harry steeled himself and scooted closer to Malfoy. "I-I'm gonna, don't hit me, okay?" Harry said. He reached out a hand to Malfoy's shoulder and tentatively rested it there. He expected to be hit, but Malfoy didn't even flinch. Harry gave a few awkward pats and then just held his hand there as Malfoy's sniffling died down. He wasn't sure if he should pull away or keep his hand there.

Malfoy took a ragged breath and released his arm from his teeth. His head was still bowed when he slowly reached up as if just recognizing the touch. Malfoy covered Harry's hand with his own for a moment that felt as if it stretched for eternity. Then, without a word, he gently pried Harry's wet fingers off his shoulder and wrapped his hands back around his knees.

"Okay," Malfoy said finally. The sun was disappearing below the horizon. Dusk was settling over the Hogwarts grounds in purple-gray plumes of haze, smothering out the final streaks of burning, red sunlight. The castle looked like a jet black shadow painted over the background on the hill behind them. Malfoy tapped his right foot on the ground a few times before repeating, "Okay."

Harry blinked at him, a final ray of sunlight glaring in his field of vision. "Okay, what?" he asked, squinting.

"Okay, what do you want, Potter? Name your price."

Harry shook his head. "What are you talking about? Price of what?"

Malfoy let out an exasperated sigh and began tapping his foot faster on the ground. "I admit. You've caught me in several compromising situations. There is nothing stopping you from telling everyone and humiliating me, among other things. . . You've got me. And I can't have that. Name your price to keep your fat mouth shut. Whatever you want-it's yours. Anything."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I don't _want_ anything! I don't care about humiliating you-"

"Why _not?_ God, Potter, why can't you just be normal? You don't make any sense! You _hate_ me, I hate you! Just-name your price! Something-whatever you want. Money? A positive article in _The Prophet?_ I need to know that you aren't going to use this," he gestured his arm flamboyantly, "against me."

Harry sighed and shook his head. Typical Malfoy. Trying to buy people instead of trusting them. After Harry's continued silence during Malfoy's hospital stay, he should know that Harry wasn't going to spread his business around. _Unless Malfoy was planning to do something_. "You have my word, Malfoy. I'm not going to sell you out."

Malfoy glared. "You don't get it. I don't want your _word_. Your _word_ is not going to help me sleep at night."

"Well, maybe I don't care if you can sleep at night. My word is all you're going to get."

Malfoy pressed his lips together and shook his head. "No, no, no. I don't _want_ anything from you. I want to give _you_ something-"

"I'm not taking a bribe! I have no reason to tell anyone anything. And if you don't shut up about paying me off then maybe I'll just change my mind!"

"See? No. Everyone can be bought. Everyone has a price. Name yours." He rubbed his hands together as if preparing for negotiation. Malfoy simply could not allow Harry to have control over the situation.

"No way. I can not be bought."

"Christ, you sound like a first year Hufflepuff on a date."

Harry snorted and looked at Malfoy. Malfoy's mouth quirked up at the corner, then quickly reset into a thin line.

"Fine," Malfoy sighed. "Fine, you can't be bought. But at least let me give you something as a gift." He shrugged. "It will make me feel better."

Harry widened his eyes. "A gift?" he repeated. "From Draco bloody Malfoy? So he can _feel_ good? What is the world coming to?" Harry pretended to faint and threw his hand up to his forehead.

Malfoy scowled and elbowed him.

"Ouch!" Harry yelped, rubbing his arm.

"Believe it or not, I _am_ human, Potter. _"_

"Hard to believe," Harry muttered.

Malfoy glared. "No, not really." He ripped a handful grass out of the ground and threw it into the air, haphazardly. Bits of grass caught in the wind and landed on both boys' legs. Potter frowned. "I hate you, Potter."

....

....

....

"Huh?"

Draco really did hate him. He said it again. "I said, I hate you, Potter."

Potter rolled his eyes and leaned back on his elbows in the mud. "Well, I hate you, too, arsehole." The burning, warm hues of sunlight had fizzled out to a few citrusy yellows and greens.

"Hmmm. And why is that?"

"Because I hate you!"

"And why do you hate me?"

Potter threw his arms up in the air. "Because _you_ hate _me!"_

Draco frowned thoughtfully and tapped his finger against his lips. "Hmmm, and why do you think that is?"

Potter stared at him, wild-eyed. "That's a good fucking question! I've been wondering that one since first year!"

A pang of hurt flashed through Draco for a moment when he thought back to first year. "Ah, yes. First year. When you rejected my offer of friendship. Yes, I—"

"Wait. Rejected . . .?"

Now Draco frowned. "Yes, Potter. Rejected. Or perhaps your feeble memory has failed you after one too many blows to the head. I suppose when you think about it, it was _you_ who first hated _me."_

Potter shook his head. "No . . . that's not—"

Real anger and hurt flashed across Draco's face. "Yes, that _is_ what happened-that's _exactly_ what happened!" He pounded a fist on the ground. "Trust me, Potter. I remember. That's exactly how it happened. You decided that I wasn't good enough for you and your new posse of Mudbloods and blood traitors and, um, _giants_. You rejected _me."_ Draco was breathing heavily. His hands were clutched into fists at his sides. It occurred to him that he had just provided Potter with additional fodder for humiliation, but the words kept spilling forth. He had been wanting to say them for years. He had wanted to know _why_ for years. Being rejected by the great Harry Potter had been one of the lowest moments in Draco Malfoy's young life. If anything, he continued the rivalry only to avenge his hurt eleven year old self—Draco-Of-The-Past. He had stopped really caring about gaining Potter as a friend once he realized how dorky the little git was. But the rejection still hurt. Rejection always hurt.

Harry's eyes widened with dawning realization. He swallowed. "I'm sorry, Malfoy, I—"

Draco clicked his tongue, disgustedly. "Don't." He smoother out the lines in his wet pants, holding his nose proudly in the air. "Rejection hurts, Potter. Even for someone as _evil_ and heartless as me."

"Wow. I just-" Potter shook his head slowly. "I never thought I had hurt you. You just seemed to know so much about the Wizarding world and I was new and scared and you insulted my friends. And-and, I did actually hear that your family was-that, um, that they were dark wizards, and so I—"

"So, you assumed that I was dark. Yes, Potter, I get it. Opposite sides of the coin."

"Well, was I wrong?"

Draco just stared at his knees and frowned. Potter and his stupid questions. Please. It didn't even warrant an answer.

Potter acknowledged the meaning in the silence, but continued on. "If I hadn't rejected you, do you think we would have been—"

"Friends?" Draco laughed. "Ha. Hardly. Maybe at first until we realized who the other was. Circumstance would have stubbed that one out right quick."

Potter shrugged. "Maybe. Probably." He fiddled with his wand. "What about now?"

Draco snickered and looked at him pointedly. "What do you think, Potter?"

"I think circumstances are worse than they first were."

"Precisely," he nodded.

Potter looked at him for a moment. Draco stared pointedly at his bare feet. "But I was never one who did what I was supposed to do."

Draco frowned, but refused to meet Potter's gaze. "You can't be serious, Potter. . ."

Potter glanced over at him and stared until Draco finally lifted his head and met his eyes. "And why not?"

Draco shook his head, exasperated. "I can't even begin to fathom why you would _want_ to be friends with me. Are you a masochist? We hate each other, Potter. I hate you. You hate me. These are not the beginnings of a long lasting friendship."

Potter began to smile. "Since when do you do what everyone else expects you to do?"

An image of Lucius Malfoy wielding a wand and a staff flitted across Draco's mind, followed by the hem of the Dark Lord's robe waving in front of his cowering face. "Um, since always."

Potter was undeterred. "Well, now is as good a time as any to stop."

Draco shook his head, fervently. "No, now would be the absolute worst time to stop. Stopping could get me killed. Befriending Harry Potter could and most likely _would_ get me killed. And for what? To spend extra time inevitably arguing with you? It would be the most pointless, dangerous waste of time relationship I can think of."

"Oh, _relationship_ now, is it? Don't jump the wand, Malfoy."

Draco rolled his eyes and blushed. _Why was he blushing_? "Oh, shut up, Potter. I'm pissed off, wet, hungry and not in the mood."

"You've been following Pomfrey's diet of 'all whites?'"

Draco felt the urge to laugh and stopped himself. "You mean all blands?"

Potter laughed. "Er-not exactly. You decimated that piece of toast this morning."

"Hmmm, you noticed. Typical stalker tendencies are not endearing, Potter."

"So you ate nothing all day," Potter forged on, undeterred. "I don't think that's what Pomfrey had in mind."

Draco huffed, indolently. "I _did_ eat, and why are you talking to me like you're my mother, Potter?"

"What? Chocolate Frogs?"

Draco's mouth quirked up again and he snorted. Should he be honest? The shock would certainly be funny enough. He decided to go for it. "Money," he muttered, quietly.

"What money?"

"That's what I ate, Potter. Money. Are you satisfied with that answer?" Draco's smirk widened.

Potter's forehead wrinkled into a confused frown that made Draco want to laugh harder. What an idiot. "Is that supposed to be a joke? Or, or a metaphor or something?"

Draco raised his eyebrows. "Metaphor! Big words, Potter. Look out, London, the Hero of the Wizarding World has obtained a nine year old's vocabulary!"

Potter just looked confused.

Draco sighed. "No, Potter. I meant it literally." Draco turned to enjoy Potter's reaction.

"You ate money," he stated, frowning.

"Yes, Potter."

His jaw dropped open and he gaped. "You ate _money?"_

"It's not as easily digestible as one might think."

"You ate _money?"_

Draco smirked. "I'm rich. I can eat whatever I want." He crossed his arms across his chest and looked smug.

Potter shook his head, as though attempting to dislodge something from his ear. Draco found Potter's reaction amusing, despite the fact that he was essentially ridiculing himself.

"Why," Potter began, the corners of his mouth turning up, despite his deep frown, "would you _want_ to eat money, you weirdo?"

"Weirdo?" Draco scoffed. "Well, Pomfrey didn't give me a lot of food options. And, you see, she never actually said that I couldn't eat coins, so. . ."

"So, naturally . . . you ate coins."

"Naturally," Draco shrugged. He was enjoying this odd banter with Potter, loathe as he was to admit it.

"But then you found out that money is not easily digested in a person with damaged organs." Potter was smirking.

Draco nodded. "Oddly enough."

Potter let out an amused breath and shook his head. "God, you're an idiot."

Draco frowned. An idiot! How dare he? Draco was quirky, certainly. Dramatic, yes. Flamboyant? Well, there were better— _manlier_ —words to describe his flair for fashion and style. But an idiot? No. No Malfoy would be deemed an idiot and get away with it. "You're just jealous, Potter, because I can eat money and you can't."

Potter laughed out loud. "Keep telling yourself that." He plucked a long piece of grass from the ground and tied it into a knot. The sky was now completely dark, save for a purplish streak. A half moon adorned the sky and stars, speckled on the canvas, glittered in the distance. Potter shivered.

"See? We're getting along better already," Potter stretched, then and moved into a kneeling position. "Why not call a truce?"

No. _No._ Draco jumped to his feet, suddenly and began to back away. He had stayed here too long, already. This was dangerous, dangerous territory. _But you're enjoying yourself_ , an annoying voice told him. He told the voice to shut the fuck up. "No, Potter," he stated firmly and shook his head. He took another step away from Potter. "I hate you. I don't want to be your friend. I don't want to talk to you unless I'm making fun of you. Just- just leave me alone. I mean that. Leave me alone. And thank you for saving my life. Er-again."

They looked at each other for a moment. Draco had spoken the cruel words kindly, but hurt flashed quickly across Potter's face.

"Malfoy, I don't—"

"No!" he cut him off. "Just-No. _No._ " Before Potter could say another word, Draco turned quickly on his heel and fled to the castle. Potter stood, dumbfounded, his wand hanging by his side as he watched the soaked and half-clothed Slytherin streak across the grounds in the dark.

....

....

....

Harry used his wand to charm his clothes dry, then returned to his dorm room. He felt confused. How was the plight of Draco Malfoy becoming the center of Harry's life? Sure, Malfoy had always been there, tormenting Harry and his friends incessantly, but now he kept reappearing, needing help, needing Harry's help, but not wanting anything to do with him. Should Harry just step back and leave him alone? He wanted to. Certainly Malfoy wanted him to, or at least thought he did. But Harry felt like he couldn't do that. He was in too deep. And like it or not, Malfoy _had_ confessed his feelings to Harry by the lake, which would probably result in some belated pummeling by Malfoy once the humiliation hit.

....

....

....

Draco was fuming. He needed to get out of Hogwarts. He needed a release.

When Draco had sulked into the Slytherin common room, half clothed, red-eyed and dripping wet, he was utterly ignored. Blaise and Millicent continued a conversation without looking up, Pansy pretended to pick at her nails, and even Crabbe and Goyle had their noses buried in a book. Draco could see the cover of Goyle's book was held upside down. Bless him for trying.

But then "bless him" quickly changed to "fuck him," when no one looked up to acknowledge his presence. He was Draco Malfoy. He was blonde. He was wet. He was bare-chested, for fuck's sake, he was a spectacle! Obviously the Slytherins were showing their support for Pansy by ignoring him, as they should. As he would have done if anyone had laid a finger on Pansy. No, he thought, he would have destroyed the bastard. Funny thing was, he felt pretty destroyed.

Draco stood for a moment, trying to catch someone's eye. Pansy finally looked up at him and opened her mouth as if she was going to say something, then closed it as Millicent put a protective hand on her arm.

Draco frowned at her sadly and slightly shook his head. "Pansy," he mouthed to her, but she quickly looked back down at her nails.

"Not now, Malfoy," Blaise muttered. "We're busy."

Draco swallowed his pride and his hurt. "Fine. Don't let me keep you from your captivating conversation." He turned and walked to his dorm.

As soon as he got in, he snatched up his wand and spelled himself dry. Then he collapsed on his bed and tried to control his uneven breaths.

He needed to get out of Hogwarts. He needed to do something that had nothing to do with school and nothing to do with the Dark Lord. He just needed . . . something. And then a strange idea hit him. It was Saturday night. The Saint Cecelia Church Choir had open rehearsals on Saturdays. Anyone could come and sing anytime they wanted.

St. Cecelia's was a Catholic Wizarding Church with one of the most beautiful volunteer choirs Draco had ever heard. Knockturn Alley seemed a ridiculous place to build a church, nestled among strip joints and poison shops. He assumed that there must have been some sort of Disillusionment cast upon the building, that allowed it to appear only to people who would be receptive. In which case, the location might be genius, after all. Nowhere were people more down on their luck than in Knockturn Alley.

Draco loved to sing. No one knew that. No one would ever know that. Draco loved to sing sacred music, not so much because he was a religious person-all evidence pointed to the contrary-but his mother used to take him to Catholic Church when he was younger and she had enrolled him in the choir as a boy. At first he cried when he found out he was in the choir, because he didn't want to sing songs with a bunch of God-fearing elderly women, but his mother forced him to go. When he thought about it now, it was probably less to do with her personal beliefs and more to do with improving the Malfoy name in Wizarding society. It was easier to believe that Lucius had been under Imperious all those years ago if the Malfoy clan attended weekly mass. But even Lucius was never desperate enough to head to the confessional. Draco laughed out loud, imagining his father confessing his sins to a horrified priest and then Obliviating him.

Draco never admitted it to anyone, but he grew to love the choir. It wasn't the Sunday, happy church music that he liked, but the evening chamber choir music. The dark music. The classical pieces. The pieces written by insane geniuses about mortal peril, and eternal damnation in the fiery pits of hell. The beautiful, harmonious minor chords mingling with his voice in requiem, releasing his own notes to blend with moving dissonance, to lower and raise in controlled volume, building to the climax of the song, sometimes throwing himself into the song so much that he could not see, could not think, could only hear and feel and be the music. It was truly incredible. Magical. And he had been told that he was talented.

His mother had stopped taking him to church and, in fact, hinted that he should no longer attend mass or choir when his father was arrested. The God-fearing charade was over and there was no need to waste precious Malfoy time at church when they could be campaigning for the Malfoy name in a more realistic way, or simply hiding.

For years, Draco had received a pass to leave Hogwarts, accompanied by a house elf to attend choir rehearsals and special performances. That pass was rescinded upon Lucius' arrest, but Draco had started dodging the house elf as early as fourth year when he realized that Sundays were for hangovers and Tuesdays were best spent dicking around. He had missed going, but skipping rehearsals and mass became habitual, and he eventually forgot about going altogether. Until now. Now he wanted out of Hogwarts. Now that he no longer had a pass to leave, of course.

Draco sighed. Maybe he should go speak to the Headmaster. Draco shivered as Dumbledore's face came into his mind and he was overcome with guilt. Okay, maybe he should go speak to Snape, instead of Dumbledore. But Snape would only take him to Dumbledore in the end, and it was most efficient to cut out the middleman and go straight to the source.

Dumbledore.

Stupid Dumbledore with his stupid twinkling eyes and his stupid beard tied in a stupid ponytail. The barking old man evidently thought he was Merlin. Draco supposed Dumbledore had been alive nearly as long as Merlin. Though that was about to change.

The thought made Draco's throat tighten up and he felt searing heat spread through his neck. Was he really going to go ask Dumbledore for permission to go to church and then return to his dorm and his grand plans of how to murder the man?

Come to think of it, it was the perfect plan. Dumbledore would never suspect God-fearing Draco to be plotting his murder.

Murder.

God!

Not murder. _Not murder_. War. War casualty. Dumbledore never should have gotten mixed up in the resistance in the first place if he held his life in such high esteem.

Nor should have Draco.

He couldn't breathe, again. He had to leave. But Dumbledore was his only ticket out. Damn it.

Draco pushed his hair off of his face and stalked off to the shower. He had a date with Dumbledore tonight. And hopefully with the Saint Cecelia's Choir shortly after.


	6. Chapter 6

By suppertime, Harry was starving. Hermione and Ron met him in the Gryffindor Common Room and the three students, along with Neville, Lavender and Parvati, headed down to the Great Hall.

"Fred learned this new charm that detects the weather," Ron chatted amicably with the others. "Watch." He lifted his wand and held it straight up. " _Temperus Hogwarts_!" Gray smoke lightly unfurled from the tip of his wand, forming a hologram. The hologram depicted a mild evening on the Hogwarts grounds.

The girls shrugged, unimpressed. "Big deal, Ron," Parvati rolled her eyes. "That's what windows are for."

Hermione laughed. "Now if it could predict the weather, like a Muggle forecast, then it would be worth something," she added. The group turned a corner in the castle.

Ron frowned. "Actually, Hermione, it can predict weather, too. That one was just for weather detection. It's not completely useless."

Harry jumped to Ron's defense. "You never know. What if you were trapped underground in a dungeon and you needed to make an escape on a rainy day because somehow rain fit into your plans?"

"Or," Neville added, "Because rain dampens outdoor wards."

"It does?" Hermione asked.

Ron smiled at her smugly. "Yes, know it all, it does."

"Oh, be quiet, Ronald."

"Predict tomorrow's weather, Ron!" Lavender exclaimed.

Ron grinned and held up his wand again. The group stopped walking and gathered around his wand. _"Temperus futurus Hogwarts_ ," he stated. Another hologram appeared, this one looking like a three-dimensional snow globe. The students peered closer as downy, white flakes blew furiously around the hologram of Hogwarts until the castle and grounds were covered in a thick layer of snow.

"Wow!" Parvati's eyes lit up, as did all the other Gryffindors', at the hologram in front of them. "It's going to blizzard!" she shrieked, clapping her hands like an excited child.

Harry felt excited, too. There was something special about the first snow of the year, and even moreso about the first snowstorm of the year. The anticipation of what looked like a nasty blizzard was now palpable in the air. The Gryffindors raced in the Great Hall and began telling the other students about Ron's blizzard prediction. Ron seized his moment of glorious popularity and spent the majority of dinner casting a snowy Hogwarts hologram at the table and shouting about snowball fights and Slytherins and transfiguring _Hogwarts, A History_ into a sled. "Something useful for a change!" he shouted, and threw a sideways glance at Hermione, who appeared bored with the conversation and turned her attention toward Lavender, Padma and Parvati, who were gossiping about the upcoming Winter Formal.

Harry dove into his treacle tart when it arrived, forgetting how good food tastes when you are actually hungry. Years of being properly fed at Hogwarts had caused Harry to take the feeling of fullness for granted. He moaned in delight as he polished off his dessert, and Hermione, looking disgusted, shoved her treacle tart at Harry before he could even ask her for it.

"Fanks, Hehmione!" he said around a mouthful of food. "Mmmm!" he added.

After finishing his second treacle tart and burping rudely in satisfaction, to the amusement of the boys and the disgust of the girls, Harry chanced a look at the Slytherin table just as Malfoy gingerly wiped his hands with a cloth napkin and stood up.

Harry watched the blonde weave a regal path through the students to the staff table in the front. Professor Snape looked immediately annoyed and then enraged as it turned out that Malfoy was heading toward Professor Dumbledore and not Snape. The color drained from Snape's already pale face and he pressed his lips together and watched Malfoy closely.

Malfoy turned to smirk at Snape before approaching the Headmaster.

Harry watched as the Headmaster and the Slytherin engaged in conversation. He kept a close eye on Malfoy, not trusting him one bit. He could see Malfoy's mouth moving animatedly. He was gesturing with his hands. Dumbledore looked delighted, as usual, and nodded along with whatever Malfoy was spouting. Most likely a giant batch of lies, Harry thought.

Malfoy nodded once, then reached forward and shook Dumbledore's hand. He turned to smirk at Snape once more, then stalked away, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. Malfoy's expression faltered as he passed the Slytherin table. He averted his eyes, hurrying out of the Great Hall.

Harry returned to his friends at the table and firmly decided to put all thoughts of Draco Malfoy out of his head.

....

....

....

Draco left the Great Hall, having finished his first meal of the day that consisted of something more sustaining than crumbs and money. There was no reason to stay and be ignored by housemates. Plus, Dumbledore had just granted him permission to leave the Hogwarts grounds that evening for choir rehearsal and he wanted to seize every free moment he could spend outside of the wretched castle.

When Draco had asked Dumbledore for permission to leave Hogwarts, the old man looked decidedly suspicious. But when Draco explained that he wanted to start going back to church choir and suggested that Dumbledore send him with an elf escort (both to keep an eye on him and on anyone who wished Draco harm in Diagon-ahem, _Knockturn_ -Alley on a Saturday night) the nutcase's eyes had twinkled so much that Draco feared the light shooting out of the old man's face might Stupefy him. But eventually Dumbledore agreed, clearly pleased with Draco's religious ambitions.

Snape, on the other hand, had looked like he was going to fall out of his chair. Snape was well aware of Draco's upcoming task for the Dark Lord. If Draco found himself unable to complete the task, Snape, under an Unbreakable Vow to his mother, had sworn to complete the task for him. The greasy man had eyed him suspiciously, as though Draco would spout off Avada Kedavra in the middle of dinner. As much as it wasn't really funny, Draco had smirked at Snape anyway, relishing having a secret with Dumbledore, then feeling incredibly guilty about having a secret with Dumbledore.

He really, really needed to leave.

Eventually, Draco found himself standing at the entrance to Hogwarts. Dobby Apparated to the entrance with a crack, as promised, to escort him to Diagon Alley. He was sworn to secrecy about Draco's whereabouts under fear of death. Despite Dobby's continued protests about being a free elf, Draco could see that Dobby still cowered habitually beneath him. As he should.

"Master Dumbledore is saying I am to be taking you to Diagon Alley, young Master Malfoy?" Dobby asked, lowering his ears.

"Yes, Dobby. Let us not waste any more time." Draco stuck his arm out, importantly and Dobby grasped his elbow. Dobby Apparated them to Diagon Alley.

Draco stumbled upon landing on the cold, cobblestoned street. The air felt wet and smelled like snow. Draco wrapped his cloak more tightly around him, wishing he had thought to wear his dragonhide gloves, but relishing the free feeling of the cold air that burned his dry, chapped skin. He was out of Hogwarts. Out. He turned a familiar-looking corner and headed down a seedy looking street toward Knockturn Alley. Cloaked figures skulked and staggered about. Rentboys and hookers leaned against rubbish bins, displaying their fishnet-clad legs and an overabundance of chest. Hobos eyed Draco's fastidious appearance and made immediate pleas for galleons, sickles, kind sir, or even just a knut! Draco felt guilty about the coins he had eaten earlier, but was too disgusted by the raggedy hobos to donate to their cause. A Malfoy is only a charitable benefactor if he ultimately benefits from the transaction. Giving to hobos? Not beneficial to Draco in the slightest.

Draco cast a Tempus Charm and saw he had time to kill before he needed to be at St. Cecelia's. He had been meaning to check on the twin Vanishing Cabinet at Borgin and Burke's for some time. Now was as good as any. He told Dobby to wait for him on the corner. Dobby frowned, but did as he was told.

Draco stepped imperiously into Borgin and Burke's. Mr. Borgin's eyes widened when he recognized Draco's impossibly white hair. "Mr. Malfoy!" he gasped. But when he realized it was only Draco and not Lucius, his awed look faltered slightly into more of sneer.

Draco returned the sneer. "Show me the Vanishing Cabinet, Borgin," he commanded. "I need to check something."

Mr. Borgin's face broke into an uneasy smile as he cleared his throat. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy," his oily voice oozed. "This way, please."

"I know where it is, Borgin. I'd like to look at it alone, if you don't mind. You understand these things, yes?" Draco shot him a condescending glare, his heart beating erratically in his chest. Borgin knew Draco was using the Vanishing Cabinet for something not-so-honest and that he required that one remain in the shop protected by multiple wards. Draco had set down a hefty sum of galleons before returning to Hogwarts to ensure that the Vanishing Cabinet remain at Borgin and Burke's and not be sold or tampered with.

Borgin smiled wider, his popcorn teeth gleaming yellow in the dim, overhead torchlight. His frown deepened. "Of course, Mr. Malfoy," he said, greasily, rubbing his hands together. He looked suspicious, but stepped to the side and gestured Draco forward, allowing Draco's solo entrance into the side room that contained the cabinet.

Draco knelt down in front of the cherry wood box and ran a finger along the fine, wood grains on the top. He had been so sure that his plan would work over the summer. All he had to do was mend the broken cabinet in the Room of Requirement and a doorway would be opened to allow in others, a simple subterfuge of Dumbledore's notoriously impenetrable Hogwarts wards.

He stared at the Vanishing Cabinet, then waved his wand over the cabinet, removing the wards. He took a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and gently laid it inside. He shut the door, muttered an incantation and waited a few moments to reopen it. The parchment was gone. Draco said a silent thanks to whatever god or demon was working on his side, shut the door and reopened it again. The parchment was sitting in the cabinet again, good as new. He swallowed nervously and nodded to himself. Watching the cabinet in action made the reality of his plans sink in further.

While he already knew that the Vanishing Cabinet in the shop worked fine, this further confirmed that he needed to fix the twin cabinet at Hogwarts and then create a sort of magical link between the two that would cause items to disappear from one cabinet and reappear in the other. Right now, items vanished from both cabinets, but on the Hogwarts' end, something was happening to either destroy or eliminate items placed in the cabinet. It could not be used for, say, _people_ , quite yet. And though people would be vanishing, ideally, from Borgin and Burke's into Hogwarts, and not the other way around, it was not a risk Draco was willing to take with Voldemort's brightest and bravest. And most belligerent.

Although if he could get the whole lot of them and perhaps even snake-eyes himself to enter the broken cabinet . . .

No. Thoughts like this were dangerous. God, why did he think thoughts like this? The Dark Lord could _read_ thoughts like this. Shit. _Shit._ A mental slip-up was as bad as a direct betrayal. No. Draco was just _musing._ Just musing about why he _must_ fix the cabinet. Wouldn't want that crew to die. No sir.

And besides, isn't this what Draco wanted? Didn't he want to impress his father and the Dark Lord with his shrewd intelligence and stand at the Dark Lord's side when Harry Potter fell and the Purebloods regained their standing atop Wizarding society?

When Harry Potter fell.

When Harry Potter was _murdered_.

When Dumbledore was murdered . . .

Draco sighed, and stuffed the parchment back in his pocket. He carefully replaced the wards and stood. As he turned to leave, an opal necklace behind the counter caught his eye. Borgin scowled at him.

"What's this?" Draco asked, pointing at the necklace.

"A very rare necklace, Mr. Malfoy."

"I can see that, Mr. Borgin. What is doing in your nefarious shop?" Draco's heels clicked as he tried to emulate his father's cold demeanor. Borgin would not allow just anyone into his shop. Apparently, he had to be treated like a submissive house elf first.

Borgin smirked and raised his eyebrows. "You compliment me, Mr. Malfoy."

"It was not intentional, Mr. Borgin. Now. The necklace?"

Borgin gently lifted the velvet lined wooden box that held the necklace and carried it toward Draco. Draco instinctively reached toward the necklace, but Borgin quickly snatched it away.

"Ah, ah, ah, young Malfoy. I wouldn't want second degree murder on my hands."

"What do you mean?"

"This necklace is cursed. Any contact with human skin for more than five seconds sends the wearer into an immediate grave." His beady eyes narrowed as he gauged Draco's reaction.

Immediate grave? It sounded so simple. Too simple. Draco wouldn't even have to be in the same room as the old man when it happened. If he could just get the necklace near Dumbledore, then the old fool would pick it up and, really, kill himself. It would essentially be suicide. Not homicide. Not murder.

"How much?" Draco croaked, trying not to sound desperate.

Borgin lips curved into a smile. "One might ask why another would choose to purchase such a dangerous item as this."

Draco returned the slow smile and narrowed his eyes. "One might not be a shop-owner trying to make a sale, then, because I'm sure someone with as much tact as you, Mr. Borgin, would be intelligent enough to recognize a collector of dark artifacts, such as myself, as simply that."

Mr. Borgin paused, sorting the insults from the compliments in Draco's convoluted retort and instead chose to forge on with the business venture, which was Draco's manipulative intent entirely. "Indeed. Then in that case, Mr. Malfoy, the price is 450 galleons."

Draco nodded and handed over the money without batting an eyelash. Borgin closed the wooden box and handed it to Draco, who shrunk it with his wand and stuck it in his pocket.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Malfoy," Borgin lied.

"Likewise, Mr. Borgin," Draco lied back, leaving the shop and heading towards the church. He found it odd that Borgin had hung Christmas bells over the door. They jingled merrily as Draco crossed back into the snowy, cobblestone street of Knockturn Alley.

....

....

....

He knew he shouldn't have. He knew better. He had promised himself. And yet, when he spotted Draco Malfoy (by accident! He wasn't following him!) with Dobby by the main entrance, Harry's curiosity was insanely piqued. And when he heard the words "Diagon Alley," Harry's plans for his Saturday night were instantly solidified. After watching the blonde and the house-elf Disapparate with a crack, Harry tore off toward Gryffindor Tower to snatch his Invisibility Cloak and play detective again.

_Typical stalker tendencies are not endearing, Potter._

Shut up.

He was not a stalker.

He wasn't. Only a person committing nefarious deeds would sneak off to Diagon Alley on a Saturday night.

_He's accompanied by a house elf from the Headmaster._

So?

_You're sneaking off to Diagon Alley, too._

So? Shut up!

Harry impatiently snatched his Invisibility Cloak and went running for the statue of the humpback witch, taking off toward Hogsmeade.

As he began the undoubtedly complicated journey to London, he wondered why he cared so much in the first place. Perhaps it was a bit stalker-like to be trailing Draco and an elf on a Saturday night. But his gut told him he was right. And Harry, being neither shrewd nor wise, always, unquestionably followed his instincts.

When Harry arrived in Hogsmeade, carefully exiting Honeyduke's so as not to disturb anything or set off any wards, he headed through the brisk night air towards the Three Broomsticks. From the Three Broomsticks, Harry Flooed to The Leaky Cauldron. Exiting the Leaky Cauldron, Harry found himself on the mostly deserted streets of Diagon Alley as the winter's first snowflakes began to fall. The flakes disintegrated as soon as they hit the fuzz of his warm, wool cloak.

Harry dug his hands deeply into his pockets to keep warm and headed toward Knockturn Alley, his right hand clenched protectively around his wand.

He walked down the eerie street as men and women displayed themselves for sale and the homeless begged for change that Harry wished he had brought. Harry was on the lookout for a blonde head, but what he found was Dobby the house elf, standing guard outside an unremarkable building that appeared to have no entrance. In fact, the building was so unremarkable that Harry grew suspicious.

" _Finite Incantatem,_ " he whispered. Just as he suspected, the Disillusionment Charm faded and soaring above Harry was a gorgeous, Gothic cathedral with large, stained glass windows that appeared to glow a dull, flickering red from candlelight within the building. The front doors were open, welcoming those who could see the church. Harry could see that Dobby was standing by the doors, pacing and looking nervous. What business could Malfoy have in a church?

Still under the guise of the Invisibility Cloak, Harry snuck past Dobby into the church and crept through the lobby. He stopped at the entrance of the church and gasped. The church was even more stunning from the inside. The Gothic ceilings soared above him. Arches lined the aisle, sharp, coiled and angled. Flying buttresses adorned either side of the long column of arches that led up to the altar, carpeted in a lush, deep red that complimented the stained glass. Select candles in red glass holders flickered with the prayers of the pious and needy.

Harry stepped farther into the church, then heard the sound of voices above him. He turned and looked up to see tarnished, brassy pipes of an organ rising sharply out of a loft over the church. In the loft were men and women, all holding black, leather books. An unmistakable white, blonde head was among them. Harry frowned and gaped up at Draco Malfoy. What was this? Could this be some sort of a Death Eater meeting? Or some strange satanic ritual that had to be held in a religious sanctuary?

Harry stumbled into a pew and swung himself around so that he could witness what was happening in the loft.

A woman's voice spoke and Malfoy nodded, looking worried. He stepped forward out of the crowd and stood with his back to the men and women, clutching his black book and facing out towards the church, towards Harry.

A brief moment of silence ensued before Harry heard a hum begin in a low baritone. It was quickly complimented by a searing hum in a higher tenor. Women's voices then joined and the lower sounds lifted and pulsed through music, moving it forward, creating a harmony that lifted Harry's heart in exultation. He blinked to be sure of what he was seeing. Malfoy was singing? Singing church songs? In a choir of adult wizards and witches? The sounds that were coming out of the choir loft were unlike any Harry had ever heard before. Sure, he had been exposed to classical and sacred music in his life, but had never cared for it. Hearing it live, however, reverberating and echoing off the domed ceiling of the church, was a different experience entirely. It was truly as if a choir of angels had come to sing glorious praise. Trumpets sounded without the instruments, and heaven had opened up. Harry felt unexplainable joy at the sound.

Then the course of the song stopped as quickly as it had begun, switching suddenly into a rising fury, the notes turning and shifting, the sudden dissonance filling Harry's heart with desperation and sadness. He was awed. He was stilled. It was loss and mourning poured into notes, pulled together by strings of human voice.

Harry watched Malfoy nod to the woman and step forward. The voices of the choir pulled down to pianissimo as a cool, tenor voice opened softly over them.

" _Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis, voca me cum benedictus—"_

As the voice grew, its timbre seemed to embrace every voice that backed it up, and brought the whole sound to a new place entirely. Harry's eyes widened as he watched Draco Malfoy—Draco Malfoy!—close his eyes, lift his head and sing the Latin words of requiem.

" _Oro supplex et acclinis, cor contritum quasi cinis, gete curam mei finis."_

His voice then blended with a female's and the two twisted over and around each other, growing furious then ebbing to weary, dancing about the harmonies. Harry froze, enchanted. His jaw could not shut. The sharp and pain-filled melody was beyond beautiful.

Malfoy's voice built and gathered and rose until it climaxed in a sharp, breathy note filled with pained yearning that hung in the air and caused Harry's throat to tighten. Then it pulled back into a near whisper filled with more meaning than the loudest of notes and Harry watched as the young man's hands trembled and grasped the banister of the loft as his voice faded out. The remaining music fell around him, releasing softly, slowly, as Malfoy visibly panted, his lips parted, his eyes closed as the last of the song washed over him.

Harry stared at Malfoy and both remained frozen for several long moments after the song ended, coming back to earth.

"Christ," Harry murmured, feeling dizzy.

Malfoy wiped sweat off his forehead, casually brushing at his eyes as well. He turned to look at the director and returned her pleased smile with an exhausted one. Several people walked forward to Malfoy and patted him on the shoulder. He looked content and proud, but not proud in his usual menacing, boastful way. He looked proud in a humble way, as if this was one moment that made life worth living.

Harry suddenly felt incredible guilt for having witnessed Malfoy bare his soul to a vast, open church. Surely, Malfoy would have never, ever wanted Harry or anyone else at Hogwarts to see that moment of powerful vulnerability. Harry could think of only one word to describe it: beautiful. In that moment, Draco Malfoy was beautiful. In that moment, Draco Malfoy captured heaven, hell, war, love, hate, life, and death and merged it with his soul. Draco Malfoy was not a monster. He couldn't be. A monster could not sing with that vulnerable pain. That amount of feeling could not be manipulated or exaggerated. It was Draco Malfoy with the hell of this world stripped away. And he was beautiful.

Fancy that.

....

....

....

Draco shook the choir director's hand and beamed.

"It's good to have you back, Draco," she said, smiling.

"It's good to be back," he replied and truly meant it. He felt exhilarated, exalted. For one brief moment, Draco was where he wanted to be, doing what he knew he should. Everything made sense. He was human, touching God, inherently good.

The older woman, Marla, motioned for him to step away from the others. "Draco, I would like you to sing a solo for our Christmas Eve mass, but I would need a solid commitment from you to this choir."

A solo? Dear God. He wanted to. He couldn't believe he was asked. His palms started sweating and he tried not to look too pompous. He only sang the piece today because the cantor was ill and Draco happened to be familiar with the part.

"That would be an honor," he said, nodding. "I would like to."

She smiled again. "You must be here for rehearsals from now until Christmas, then. And you must attend the Christmas Eve mass, of course. Is that something you can arrange?"

He didn't know if it was, but saying "no" meant no. Saying "yes" gave him a chance, at least, even if it wasn't necessarily fair to Marla, the director. Draco certainly hoped he could.

"I think I can. I would have to arrange to be in London for the holidays, but that shouldn't be a problem."

She extended a hand and shook it. "Wonderful. I will see you tomorrow morning at mass."

Mass? Shit, he forgot about mass. He extended his hand and shook hers, anyway.

Glowing, high from the experience, Draco grabbed his cloak and floated out the door. He had a slight smirk on his face that grew into a large smile when he saw Dobby.

"Dobby!" he grinned, shrugging into his cloak and buttoning the clasps as he took in the quickly falling snow that had built considerably over the last hour.

Dobby's eyes widened, confused. He took a step back and lowered his head.

"I would like to walk around for a bit, Dobby," he suggested.

Dobby frowned. "Master Dumbledore requests that Dobby is bringing Master Malfoy back to the castle by nine o'clock, sir."

Draco leaped off the steps of the church into a light, dusting of snow that had just begun to cover the steps. "But it's snowing, Dobby!"

He ran his bare hand through the snow along the railing, knocking the powder onto the ground, forming tiny little hills of snow along the base of the railing. Then he threw his arms out as if to balance himself and walked in a very straight line, creating footprints in the slushy ground that curved into a capital D.

He made it for himself, but tried to sway Dobby to allow him to stay out longer. "Look-D for Dobby!"

Dobby's eyes widened and he gasped. The elf crept closer to peer at the slushy D that Draco had carved out for him. He shook his head, amazed. "That is being the first letter of Dobby's name?" he asked, slowly.

Draco frowned, and then remembered that house-elves are never taught to read. Then he remembered that humans and house-elves were not supposed to converse casually. But he was trying to manipulate him, so it was okay.

"Come here, Dobby." Draco walked forward and pointed to the D. "That is a 'D,' the first letter of Dobby. And Draco," he added, proudly.

Dobby's eyes were wide and transfixed on the D. He didn't say anything.

Draco jumped to the side, landing gracefully next to the D. He began to walk in a circle. "This is an 'O,'" he said, bringing the two ends together with a final footstep. "That's the second letter of 'Dobby.'" _And the grade that I received on all of my OWLs. Take that, Granger._

Dobby was still speechless. His small mouth hung open as he watched his name form in the snow with the footprints of his ex-master's evil son.

Draco jumped again and drew a 'B.' He stopped and stepped back, pointing to the B. "Now look at that one closely, Dobby. That is a 'B.'" Dobby nodded. "The next letter in your name is another 'B.'" Draco pointed to the space next to the B. "Draw the next B," he commanded, pointing at the snow.

Dobby looked up at him fearfully and whispered, "M-Master is teaching Dobby how to spell his name?"

Draco rolled his eyes at the melodrama. "Don't ask questions," he snapped. "Just make the letter."

Dobby looked from Draco to D-O-B several times to make sure this wasn't a trick. He took a tentative step forward and placed his foot next to the letter.

"Walk straight." Draco ordered. Dobby walked straight, his footprints small, round and wobbly next to Draco's neat ones. He carved a shaky line in the snow before Draco told him "Stop." Then he pointed and guided Dobby into creating two curves, completing the second 'B' of Dobby.

Draco nodded and looked at Dobby. "Not bad." Dobby beamed.

Draco talked Dobby through the last letter, 'Y.'

Dobby stumbled off of the letter, extending the bottom of the Y with a tail. He surveyed the snowy D-O-B-B-Y, his large eyes brimming with tears. Draco looked away from him, feeling a strange warmth in his heart. He blinked his eyes a few times and sniffed. It was cold.

"Dobby always thought Master Draco was a bad, evil boy," Dobby confessed, looking ready to bash in his head at the insult. "But Dobby was wrong. Master Draco is kind and good! Master Draco is teaching Dobby how to write!"

Draco cringed at the multitude of incorrect perceptions that Dobby had just spewed (SPEWed?) out of his mouth. No, Draco was not kind or good. He was not teaching Dobby how to write, nor was he joining the Mudblood Granger in her holy elfish crusade. He was just stalling before he had to go to the castle and distracting the house-elf was helping him get his way.

Draco's hands were beginning to grow numb from touching the cold snow. He balled his hands into fists and buried them in his pockets. His left hand brushed a hard box in his pocket and in a flash all of his remaining joy evaporated. The blood drained from his face and the lightness in his heart was replaced with overwhelming anguish. The all too familiar feeling of hopelessness, despair and self-loathing was back and Draco scowled at the intrusion.

"No, Dobby. You had it right before," he said coldly, turning away from the house-elf and standing up straighter, looking every bit the aristocratic Malfoy. What was he doing, anyway, gallavanting around in the snow like a child?

"Don't fool yourself," he muttered. "I am not kind, and certainly not to filthy house-elves, like yourself. Take me back to Hogwarts." The cruel words lacked their usual rancour, but made Draco's heart hurt, nevertheless. He had been filled with such an inexplicable amount of pride while watching Dobby spell his name. He felt disgusted with Dobby for being so easily swayed and disgusted with himself for not being the wizard Dobby apparently thought he was.

Draco Malfoy would never change. He was evil. He was dark. He could sing in church choirs and lift his soul to the edge of heaven, but he was still destined for hell—if there was a heaven and hell—and he knew it. He had sworn allegiance to the Dark Lord. There was certainly a special place in hell reserved for fallen Death Eaters and Draco suspected that it was not the entitled Pureblood paradise that people like his father imagined for themselves. Unless his father felt he was righteous in his endeavors. Perhaps a sin is only a sin if you recognize it as such. If you don't know any better, then how can you do "the right thing"?

Draco had that constant, niggling conscience that told him that what he was doing was wrong. He had practiced ignoring it for many years, but that voice never went away. He knew his own guilt. He knew he consistently made wrong choices. He knew if he found himself at Saint Peter's gate, the man would open a trap door and drop him into the fiery pits of Hades without a second thought. Having a conscience made him worse than other Death Eaters. They truly believed that purification of the wizarding world by any means necessary was the right thing to do. Draco knew better. He hated Mudbloods and Muggles. But he knew better. Murder was wrong. Genocide was also wrong. Draco, by personal choice, was pure evil.

By choice. What choice? His choice was a non-choice. Instead of making a decision, Draco had slipped easily into the role that was presented to him at birth. He unquestioningly accepted life as a Death Eater because the opposite choice, living in peace and harmony with all, did not align with his beliefs, either, and would have been a hell of a lot more difficult of a choice for him to make. He would have been betraying his family, leading them to death's door, for a cause he didn't truly believe in. He wished he could firmly plant his feet in a shade of gray, but the war had taken away the option of neutrality. As far as Draco was concerned, he had never truly had a choice, but would be forced to rot in hell for whatever decision he ended up making. People would die because of Draco's choice, no matter what. Better Mudbloods than his own parents, right? Even if it was their fault he had to choose in the first place. . .

No, it wasn't their fault. It was the Dark Lord's fault. Dark Lord. He knew the bastard loved people calling him "Lord," and the sick fuck had people on knee, worshipping him. How Draco could even walk into a Catholic church with his head held high and a pocket full of curses was beyond him. But he did. And come Christmas Eve, Draco would stand proudly as a hypocrite before the congregation, silently begging for forgiveness that even God himself could never grant.

"Take me the fuck back to Hogwarts," Draco growled. "It's late. Wouldn't want Dumbledore to lower your _pay_ , now would we?"

Dobby glanced back at his name written in the snow and then again at the angry boy in front of him. It was as if a light switch had been flipped on for one brief moment, and just as quickly, the switch was flipped off and the boy was again shrouded in darkness. Without a word, Dobby grasped the sleeve of Draco's cloak and Apparated him back to Hogwarts.

They landed in the main entrance of Hogwarts. Draco immediately shrugged out of Dobby's grasp, seeming to recoil from the house-elf's touch.

Draco paused for a moment and regarded the house-elf. Dobby had his head down and was muttering to himself. Listening closer, Draco realized the elf was quietly reciting "D-O-B-B-Y. D-O-B-B-Y," as though resorting it to memory. Fleeting warmth penetrated Draco's ice shield. He wanted to smile, but did not, instead nodding briefly to elf. "Good evening, Dobby," he offered. Dobby looked up at him, but said nothing and Draco turned away from the house-elf and left.

Full of anxious energy, Draco began to wander aimlessly through the halls of Hogwarts. It was late, and normally he would have had Prefect duty, but in Draco's absence Snape likely reassigned the evening's duties to Pansy. The thought of Pansy brought a hot lump of shame to Draco's throat and he swallowed hard, trying to dislodge it. Perhaps now was a good time to find the girl and make amends.

For a moment, he considered getting her a gift as a sort of apology. Pansy was easily bought if the gift was nice enough. She loved expensive jewelry that failed to compliment her piggish features.

Thinking of jewelry, Draco's mind drifted back to the opal necklace, and he laughed out loud at the thought of giving the cursed jewelry to Pansy: _Sorry I hurt you, love! I promise to never hurt you again. Oops . . ._

He laughed again, harder, until he was wailing, feeling insane at how not funny the whole situation was.

_Get a grip, Malfoy!_ His head screamed, but he kept laughing and wailing. Blind to where he was headed, he stumbled into a wall and banged his head against it over and over again. What—" _bang!_ "The hell—" _bang!_ "Am I doing?" b _ang bang bang!_ "God!" _bang!_ "Dammit!" _bang!_ "To hell!" _bang!_ "Ow! Fuck!"

Draco grabbed his aching head and slid to the floor, both laughing and crying desperately, but tears would not come. He continued to make sounds like he was crying, even though he wasn't until he heard footsteps approaching. He grabbed his Prefect badge and held it up with one hand, as though it were a free pass to roam hallways, beating oneself up and crying about it.

"Draco, put your fucking badge away, you imbecile."

Draco looked up, still holding his aching head. "P-Pansy?" he winced, seeing double.

She crossed her arms, gripping her wand tightly and glared. " _Well?_ "

He rubbed his forehead and squinted up at her. "Well, what?" Draco started to fear that he had concussed himself, as there were still two Pansy's staring down at him. His nausea was increasing, as was the fear that he would vomit before he could apologize.

" _Well,_ it's about goddamn time you explain yourself!" she shrieked.

His vision blurred up and he rested his head against the wall. He really should not have been banging his head a week after leaving the hospital with a head injury. _Or at all, you fucking moron._ He swallowed. "Pansy, I'm so sorry," he said. He couldn't remember what he was sorry for, so he repeated it again for emphasis. "I'm so sorry, Pansy."

She scowled at him. "And for what might you be apologizing, Draco?"

He shook his head. He really didn't feel well. Swallowing back the urge to vomit he asked, "Hmmm? Er-wait. What?" Searing pain suddenly blinded him. "Oh, fuck!" He grabbed at his head again and groaned.

"Shit," Pansy muttered, and slid down beside Draco.

"Wait," he tried again. "Wait, what'd you say? I just—fuck. I'm sorry, Pans." He took a deep breath and felt the vomit rising again. "I'm gonna be sick," he grunted and turned away from her, pulling himself onto his knees.

Pansy wrinkled her nose and quickly conjured a bucket and thrust it under Draco just as he began to vomit.

"Jesus, you idiot," she murmured. As he threw up, she placed her wand on his head and healed his concussion. He stopped vomiting instantly, feeling much better. Pansy Vanished the bucket and the two leaned back against the wall, Pansy scowling and Draco gasping for breath.

When he had finished panting he asked her, "Where'd you learn to do that?"

She shrugged, waving her hand in the air. "You know. Brothers. Quidditch." She shrugged again and the two fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Draco finally broke the silence. "Pansy, I deeply apologize for whatever I did to you."

She was quiet for a moment, then she took a deep breath and crossed her arms. "Draco. Why do you keep acting like you don't know what happened?"

He shook his head. "I'm sure you won't believe me but, I really _don't_ remember. I only know what I heard everyone say. That-that I, put, um."

"Say it, Draco."

"Is that really what happened? That I, um, choked you or something?"

"Or something," she snorted. "Yes, you _choked_ me or something. After shoving me. Thank Merlin Blaise caught me or I would have gone straight into the glass table. Although, you jumped on me, anyway, so I suppose it may not have worked out in my favor after all."

Draco winced. "God, Pansy. I'm so sorry. I don't even know what to say. 'I didn't mean to' probably doesn't mean much, but I _can_ tell you that I would never intentionally hurt you. I wouldn't, Pansy! I didn't mean to, I just. Fuck. I'm sorry."

"Are you just apologizing so the Slytherins will stop ignoring you?"

Draco shook his head, fervently. "No. No way. You don't even have to tell them. I deserve it. I deserve worse. I—in fact—you can give me a free hex. Anything you want. Take my wand," he quickly thrust his wand into her hand. "Here. Anything you want. Make it hurt."

She gingerly stuck his wand into the folds of her robes and regarded him closely. "You really don't remember?"

He clenched his jaw and shook his head again. "I, I kind of. Um. Blacked out."

"Why? I know there's more to this story than you're telling me. You owe me the fucking truth, Draco."

He blushed, embarrassed of the truth. "I know, I know," he muttered, wringing his hands.

She raised her eyebrows. He covered his face in shame. "Well? Out with it."

"Shit," he moaned, his voice muffled under his hands. The tips of his ears were bright red. "Can't we just . . . another time? Please, Pansy."

"God damn it, Draco. No! I'm your friend. At least I thought I was—"

"You are," he insisted. "It's just . . . really embarrassing. Not something I'm proud of." He sighed deeply, as though extra oxygen might make him disappear.

She put her arm around him, then. "Tell me, Draco," she said softly.

He shook his head in his hands and laughed without humor. "You'd dare touch me . . . after what I did."

He could feel her shrug. "The whole thing was weird. It wasn't you. You were acting weird. I have a few guesses, but I'd rather just hear the truth instead of beating around the bush and wondering why my best friend attacked me."

He peered up at her, slowly. "If I recall, you slapped me first."

She dug her fingernails into his shoulder and he winced. "I'm a _girl_ , Draco. I didn't attempt to choke you to death. And, apparently since you were "blacked out" and take no responsibility for what you were doing, you very well could have killed me if Goyle didn't pry your hands off of my neck. Now stop skirting the issue and tell me what the fuck you were doing."

"Fine." He sat up straight and faced her. He almost began speaking when he changed his mind and turned his back to her. "Okay," he said to the wall, coward that he was.

"I-learned-how-to-create-an-incomplete-sleeping-charm-so-I-could-still-function-and-not-fall-asleep-and-I-gave-it-to-myself-before-I-did-my-homework-because-it-helps-me-to-think-creatively-I-guess-I-don't-know-oh-God-Pansy,-don't-tell-anyone-please-but-I-guess-it-went-out-of-control-because-then-I-blacked-out-and-attacked-you-and-I-don't-know-God-I'm-sorry-please,-please-don't-tell-anyone. Okay. That's it." He let out his breath. "Boody hell." He buried his head back in his hands as another uncomfortable silence fell upon the two.

Another moment passed.

And another.

Draco felt Pansy remove her arm from his shoulder. He finally glanced up. She was staring at her knees, looking horrified.

She slowly turned her horrified face to Draco and spoke slowly. "How _stupid_ are you?" she squeaked out. _"Sleeping charms_?"

"I know, I know!"

"Sleeping _charms_ , Draco? Are you fucking mental?" Pansy was working herself up into one of her usual fits. "Are you a fucking hobo, Draco? Are you homeless? A prisoner? Are you a mentally instable St. Mungo's invalid? A bored housewife? What the _fuck_ are you doing messing around with Sleeping charms, you stupid, stupid arsehole!"

"I know, Pansy! I know," he said, rubbing his forehead. He could feel a headache coming on, perhaps a lingering after-effect of his concussion.

"No. No, Draco. I don't think you do. You learned how to make them _incomplete_. Oh, that's just wonderful, genius! Jesus, what an ego! Oh, you've been working on this, have you? Figured it all out, have you? Works pretty well for you, does it?"

"Pansy, calm—"

"Don't you _dare_ , Draco Malfoy! Don't you _dare_ tell me to calm down. You're lucky I don't write a letter to your mother—"

Draco gasped and shot his head up. "You wouldn't!" he hissed, horrified. "Come on, Pansy! I told you the truth, okay?"

"This is bigger than that, Draco! Oh, Christ. How many times have you done it? Probably already a fucking addict," she alternated between shrieking and muttering under her breath. "How many times, Draco? Count them up!" Pansy huffed, wrinkling up her pig nose.

"What do you mean 'already an addict?'" he asked.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. "Don't you listen in Charms class _at all?_ Didn't they have the Aurors come speak to you in Grammar School?"

"No . . ."

She scoffed. "Oh, right. _Malfoys_ home school their heirs. No wonder you're such a fuck-up. Not enough peer social interaction as a child. . ."

He kept his mouth shut, barely, and looked up to the ceiling, willing Pansy to speak before he _really_ throttled the cow.

_Not funny. . ._

"They say it takes only two times to become addicted to a Sleeping charm," she offered, finally. "The access is way too easy and completely unregulated. Plus the endorphins it floods your brain with fucks with the chemistry so you feel like you need the charm first to sleep, then to do everything else. They are psychologically addictive, since they are charms. You can't _physically_ withdrawal, but you'll feel like shit all the time, lethargic, confused. And that's when you don't cast it. And now you know what an arse you act like when you do cast it." She shook her head sadly and spoke more softly. "So. How many times already, Draco?"

He counted quietly. "Um. I don't know. Seven? Maybe eight."

She threw her head back and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath then looked up at ceiling. "Shit." Pansy threw him a sideways glance. "Shit, Draco. That's not good."

He began to feel uncomfortable. "Pansy, look. I'm not addicted, okay? I swear to you, I'll never do it again."

"You _intend_ to never do it again."

Draco could feel his anxiety rising. "No, Pansy. I said I won't and I won't."

"It's easy to _say_ you won't, until you can't sleep and your wand is a foot away from you."

"Pansy . . . just stop," he pleaded. "I don't want to fight with you."

She frowned and looked at him. "I know."

"Okay then."

"I just worry about you."

He laughed. "Don't. _Please_. And besides, Sleeping charms are least of my concerns right now."

That was the wrong thing to say.

Pansy scooted closer to Draco and lowered her voice. "Is this about your task?"

Draco's eyes widened and his breathing sped up. How did she know? Who else knew?

She put her hand on his shoulder and he flinched. "Relax, Draco. I don't know what it is, just that you have one. You as much as said so yourself on the train."

He swallowed, feeling the familiar increase of his heart. He could feel himself beginning to sweat.

Pansy rubbed his shoulder gently. "That bad, huh?"

Draco's throat tightened. "Worse," he croaked, balling his hands into fists. He felt Pansy's arms wrap around him in an embrace and she laid her head on his shoulder.

Draco hugged her back, relishing the human contact.

"I have no advice for that," she whispered. "I told you to stay away from that monster."

"I didn't have a choice, Pansy," he said through gritted teeth.

She rubbed his back, softly. "Of course not." He knew she was just placating him, but it was good to have her back on his side again. He needed someone who understood-even if it was a shrieking cow.

The two Slytherins sat like that for a moment, content to be friends again until Pansy murmured, "Now. About that hex."

Oh right. _That_.

"I've decided how I want to use it."

"What do you mean _use_ it?" Draco drawled, suspiciously.

She sat up straighter and took Draco's wand out of her pocket and dangled it in the air over his head. He eyed it, calculating, but did not grab for it, waiting instead for Pansy to make the first move.

Pansy smirked and turned the wand to Draco, handle first. He continued to stare at her, as though feeling out a predator.

"Take it!" she squawked, waggling the wand in Draco's face.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why?" he asked slowly.

She huffed, thrusting the wand at him again. "Because! I'm using my free hex when you least expect it. It's worth more if I can keep you on your toes for a few hours, days, weeks . ." she threw him a crooked smile. "Plus, I'm not pissed at you right now. I want to make it count."

He sighed. "Wonderful." Draco reached out carefully and took his wand back, shoving it into his waist pocket. He used the wall to pull himself up to a standing position and Pansy followed suit. Draco, not generally one to initiate hugs with the girl, stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her once more. "I really am sorry, Pansy," he murmured.

She dug her nails into his back and pecked his cheek. "I know, Draco." Pansy grabbed Draco's chin and tilted his head down to look her in her eyes. "I forgive you, you prat. Okay?"

His mouth quirked up into a smile. "Thanks, Pans."

She returned his smile. "You're out past curfew, Malfoy. Shall I take ten points from Slytherin?"

He rolled his eyes. "If you're into self-flagellation."

"That's a bit excessive, don't you think?"

He laughed. "Whatever. I'm going to bed." They waved to each other and Draco decided that sleep _would_ actually be a good idea, as opposed to more aimless wandering. His thoughts were not getting him anywhere. The more time he had to think, the more time he had to worry and doubt himself. From now on it would be sleep, school and planning. Anything else was a distraction and had to be eliminated. Except church choir. His hours away from the castle were necessary for his sanity, which he needed in order to get through the year. He loped off to the dungeons, in a decidedly better mood after reconciling with Pansy.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco's wand alarm rattled and shook his bed like an earthquake, indicating that it was seven a.m. and that he needed to get dressed, find Dobby and get to church. He stepped out of bed onto the cold, clammy floor of his dorm. The dungeons were usually cold, but after six years of living in the dungeons without a window, Draco could tell that this _wet_ cold meant snow. Lots of snow.

Relying on this sense alone, Draco dressed accordingly. He eyed the fuzzy patch of hair that was growing at a crawl at the crown of his head. It was longer, yes, but it would still be another week or two until it would lie flat, and even then, his white hair would barely cover the jagged pink scar on the crown of his head. He had tried to use a hair re-growth charm, but when his eyebrows had begun to grow over his face, he undid the charm in a panic. No, he would have to wait.

He sighed, brushing over it lightly with his silver dragon-handled brush. He ditched the green knit hat in favor of a fur-lined winter hat that would appropriately cover his ears and head. Plus, the brown fur in the hat matched the fur cuffs that lined his heavy black wool coat. If there was one thing Draco loved, it was matching winter wear.

He smirked in the mirror, opened the top drawer of his bureau and snatched out his black dragon hide gloves. His deep, forest green scarf both accented and completed the ensemble, and he trudged out of the dungeons, completely bundled from furry head to waterproof-charmed dragon-hide toe.

Draco headed toward the entrance of Hogwarts. He seemed to be the only God-fearing student on campus who was awake at this hour. Despite the fact that he was a piss-poor God-fearer, he felt slightly self-righteous and tried to cling to the enjoyable feeling before the inevitable guilt came.

Also, Draco was feeling well-rested and wide awake. Pansy was wrong. Draco wasn't _addicted_ to any charm. What nonsense! He had tossed and turned a bit, but fell asleep, content with his reconciliation, and arose without that nasty grogginess of which he had quickly become accustomed in the Hospital Wing.

"Dobby!" he tried, chancing that the elf would still respond to his command. He waited a moment, wondering vaguely how he would find Dobby if Dobby did not apparate to him, but he needn't have worried as Dobby appeared only moments later holding a plate with a steaming roll and two slices of bacon. He bowed deeply to Draco, who narrowed his eyes.

"Dobby is not seeing young Master Malfoy at breakfast, so Dobby is bringing him all of his favorite breakfast foods."

Draco balked. "Er . . . really?" The elf nodded vigorously. Draco, feeling suddenly hungry, reached forward for the meal. "I mean, of course. Thank you, Dobby." He took the plate eagerly and began to break off bites of the roll, shoving the warm soft bread in his mouth. They were baked to Hogwarts house-elf perfection. He smiled.

Dobby bowed again and Draco was unsure of why Dobby was giving him special treatment. They hadn't gotten along in years and hadn't Draco left him with a nasty mouthful of insults last night? Sure, Dobby had been Draco's friend when Draco was a child and thought he was one of his toys, but at the age of five his father had punished Draco for playing with the filthy house-elf, and as a result, they had never had any sort of fondness for the other. He was shocked to know that Dobby was aware of his favorite foods. And not even his favorite foods from when he was five (peanut butter and banana toast with chocolate sauce and extra sugar . . . it was truly a wonder that Draco had any teeth) but his favorite foods _now._

Of course, the bacon was off-limits according to Madame Pomfrey, but Draco did not feel inclined to hurt Dobby's feelings and he was grateful for the breakfast at all, considering their volatile history.

After finishing the biscuit and wrapping up the bacon in a handkerchief, promising to eat it later, Draco was Apparated by Dobby to Diagon Alley. He felt the usual twisting of Apparation, then everything went white and wet.

"Bloody, buggering shit!" Draco cried out, as he landed on his hands and knees in two feet of snow. The blizzard above was blinding and the snow stung his face and eyes. He squinted, wiping the snow from his face with his now snowy, wet hands, which only made him colder. His hat was missing, but he couldn't see it anywhere. Dobby was missing, too. Draco pulled himself upright and squinted through the white out, searching frantically the house-elf.

"Dobby?" he called, hoping the elf wasn't Splinched. Draco threw his hands in the snow and knocked them around a bit until two silver dollar eyes popped out of the snow bank. Draco sighed with relief as Dobby shivered, his head barely reaching over the snow bank in which they had landed. Wide-eyed, Dobby scrambled with his bare hands in the snow to carve out a space in which to breathe.

"Dobby, have you seen my hat?' Draco asked, feeling around in the snow a bit more.

Dobby shook his head and shivered again. The fool was wearing some sort of a potato sack with arm holes for clothing. Draco rolled his eyes and took off his green scarf, wrapping it around the elf and ignoring the voice in his head that told him to never give a house-elf clothing. Well, this wasn't a house-elf. This was a free elf. Right? Right. So the rules didn't apply.

Dobby's eyes widened and then he began to beat himself in the head over and over again. Draco stared at him, unsure of what to do.

"Dobby is a bad elf! Dobby has failed Master Malfoy!" he shouted, throwing snow into his own face.

Draco grabbed the little, gray arms and restrained the elf, frowning. "What happened?"

Dobby writhed in Draco's grasp and his little feet kicked snow into the air that mixed with the blinding blizzard and fell back around them. "Dobby splinched Master Malfoy's hat!" he cried, managing to kick himself in the face.

So that's where his hat was. Shit. He loved that hat.

Dobby was picking up speed, his body a little whirlwind of self-abuse.

"St-stop! Stop it!" Draco cried, unsure. His father had always encouraged this sort of behavior in elves, and so had he, but right now it seemed completely unproductive and unnecessary. The command worked, and Dobby stopped hitting himself.

Dobby blinked up at Draco and said sadly, "Dobby is very sorry, Master Malfoy. He is being so kind to dear old Dobby and showing him how to spell but the weather is too much for Dobby."

Draco frowned. "What do you mean?" He set the house-elf down and scooped more snow away from Dobby so that he could see his face.

"Dobby cannot Apparate others in a blizzard. He is not knowing how hard it snows in London. Dobby cannot Apparate Master Malfoy back to Hogwarts or he is being splinched like his hat! Dobby is a bad elf!"

Dobby smacked himself across the face and then resumed his beating.

"Stop!" Draco yelled, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "Don't do that anymore! It is not dignified and you're wasting time."

Dobby blinked up at Draco and shivered again. "This snowing is being too much for old Dobby . . ." he murmured.

Draco looked around then. The weather was a disaster. He hadn't seen this much snow in years, perhaps in his whole life. Diagon Alley was white. Completely white. Not a person, street sign or store was visible. It was disconcerting and-loathe as he was to admit it-a bit frightening.

The house-elf was turning blue and Draco began to worry. They needed shelter. "Dobby, can you Apparate yourself back?"

He nodded slowly but his eyes were filled with horror. "Dobby is not leaving sir in London! Dobby is finding a place for him to stay!"

Draco scowled. "We don't know where we are, Dobby and you can't Apparate me back to Hogwarts, what are we going to do?" His limbs were beginning to go numb and he began to panic. What _was_ he going to do? Surely no one was at the church . . . if he could even find the place.

"Dobby _can_ Apparate Master Malfoy, but he is not getting him through the Hogwarts wards. Dobby can Apparate him to Hogsmeade," Dobby's eyes were suddenly full of light.

"Hogsmeade!" Draco yelled. "Shall I go buy some sweets for you there, Dobby? Perhaps we can hold hands at Madame Puddifoots and watch the snow fall? How is Hogsmeade any better than London! I'm sure it will be a white out there, as well!"

Dobby rubbed his hands to keep them warm and nodded. "Dobby knows a place. A warm place where Master Malfoy can stay until the snow is stopping."

Draco frowned. Dobby knows a place? Since when was a Malfoy inclined to trust a house-elf with his life and safety?

A particularly strong gust of wind blew what felt like an avalanche of snow out of the sky and onto Draco and Dobby. Draco's head was soaking wet and Dobby was buried again. Draco reached into the snow bank and grabbed the ice-cold wriggling hand, yanking small Dobby out over the snow. The elf gasped for breath and Draco was unsure of whether he could set Dobby down, as the snow was now considerably deeper. He continued to hold Dobby's hand to keep him above the snow, but refused to make a decision, biding his time by clearing the small mountain of snow off of Dobby's head.

"Master Malfoy," Dobby pleaded, clearly scared. "Master must choose. Dobby is not Apparating him against his will."

Draco sighed and pulled the house elf tighter into his arms, not wanting to risk another Splinching. If he stayed here he would freeze to death or be buried alive. If he forced Dobby to Apparate him to Hogwarts, he may lose more than his favorite hat. Surely, Dobby would not take him anywhere dangerous. He seemed to have Draco's best interest at heart, for some unknown reason. "Okay," he conceded. "But, please be careful!"

Dobby clung to Draco and nodded. Draco squeezed his eyes shut then felt the dizzying twirl of Apparation again.

They landed with a thump on a rotten wooden baseboard that began to creak and groan. In fact, the entire place seemed to creak and groan and the wind whistling through the broken slats of the place sounded dark and ominous. Only the spaces between the wooden boards provided any light. A sudden strong gust of wind rattled the entire house and Draco squeezed Dobby tightly, fearing collapse.

A chill came over Draco as he put the pieces together. Hogsmeade. A wooden, abandoned house. . . "Dobby," he began slowly, still clutching the elf. " _Where_ did you say we are?"

Dobby grinned at Draco, proudly. "We is being in the Shrieking Shack, Master Malfoy!"

Draco's face paled completely and he stopped breathing. " _What?"_ he gasped, clawing his gloved fingers into Dobby's shoulders.

"We is being-"

"I _heard_ you, Dobby!' he said between gritted teeth, his voice rising in pitch with the wind rattling the shack. "We- why! The-it's – _Shrieking Shack?"_ he shrieked, too disturbed to recognize the pun. "It's haunted! Why would you take me here?" Draco's eyes roved wildly about the room, searching for ghouls, hags and creatures of the night.

Dobby forcibly released Draco and stepped away from him. Draco stumbled back against the wall of the shack and flattened himself against it, his wand clutched tightly in his left hand. "Dobby!" he hissed.

Dobby blinked innocently. "Yes, Master Malfoy?"

Draco tried to get in control of his breathing. He was a man. A _Death_ Eater. Surely he was not afraid of a haunted house? "Why!" the voiceless word exhumed out of his mouth like a sputtering exhaust pipe. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath and tried again. "Why did you bring me here? This place is notoriously haunted, you foolish elf!"

Dobby shook his head frantically. "No! No, Master Malfoy. It is only being rumors. Dobby promises. You are safe here. But Dobby is going to Hogwarts and finding food for young sir."

Draco's eyes widened. He was leaving? "You're leaving?"

Dobby bowed. "I must, sir."

_Don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me alone!_ "If you must . . ." Draco scowled and crossed his arms. He raised his eyebrows coolly. "Good day then, Dobby. Your assistance has proven useless thus far. As for your intellect . . ."

The house-elf shook his head. "I am bringing Master Malfoy food and help!" He bowed again, then vanished.

Immediately upon his departure, Draco staggered to the nearest corner of the room, sunk down to the floor and curled himself into a protective ball. The wind took that moment to blow a creaky gust through the shack. Moaning sounds could be heard with the cracking of boards that sounded like footsteps. It was still daytime, so greenish light filtered through the slats in the boarded up windows, but not enough that Draco could see. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, gnawing on his finger, which was his manlier version of sucking his thumb.

As he sat and listened to the sounds of his fading whimpers and the groans of the Shrieking Shack, he slowly relaxed and opened his eyes, first his left, then his right. _Ghouls? Goblins? Get a grip, Malfoy._

He noticed the room around him for the first time. The furniture was not covered in dusty white sheets that, with a few eye holes, could easily conceal a ghost like he had always pictured. In fact, there were items in the shack that looked rather clean, if not dingy, and while there were cobwebs in the corners, the rest of the shrieking shack seemed almost _lived_ in, which made Draco wonder if he should perhaps be more scared. Maybe it wasn't haunted at all, but was home to a gaggle of blood-thirsty hags? Vampires? _Werewolves?_

Draco scoffed at his foolishness. Werewolves. Werewolves live in the _forest_ , not in a shack with couches and chairs as if they were human . . . unless they were trying to lure curious children into the shack to rip their guts out and devour the wizard right out of them . . .?

No. _No._ He ripped his knuckle out of his mouth and made two fists at his side, setting his face into a determined scowl. _Stop it. You're fine, you are FINE._

Willing the room to be quiet and still, Draco took slow and deep inhalations.

Breath in. Hold. One-two. Breathe out. Hold. in. Hold. One-two. Breathe out. Hold. One-two-three.

Draco had just managed to control his racing heart when he heard something scurry across the floor. He yelped, jumping to his feet as a curious rat ran up to him.

His eyes bulged out of his head and he aimed his wand at the rat.

" _Stupefy!"_ he choked out. A red light shot from his wand, but missed the tiny creature which began sliding along a baseboard. The curse sank into the old wood, leaving a smoking hole in its path.

" _Petrificus Totalus!"_

The rat gave Draco a considering look, then flicked its tail and continued its nonchalant stroll. Draco fire randomly, shouting out any curse or that came to his mind.

" _Avada Kedavra!"_

" _Obliviate!"_

" _Stupefy, Stupefy, STUPEFY!"_

The floor was steaming and full of holes from all of his missed attempts The rat looked up at him and blinked, then crawled slowly into the Avada Kedavra hole-the largest one-evading Draco's siege.

"Dammit!" he hollered, stomping on the ground.

He set about sealing up all of the holes in the floor, content in the knowledge that the rat would starve to death underfoot. He then continued to patch up holes in the shack, to an almost obsessive degree, fixing windows, healing baseboards, even adding a cheery yellow coat of paint to the walls because, why not? If he had to stay in this haunted hell hole, it might as well appear comforting. Plus, it gave him something to do.

Hours later, after he had Transfigured all of the furniture into lush, maroon velvet upholstered sets and marble and glass tabletops with a large, intricately designed oriental rug and fireplace with various lanterns that cast a cozy glow about the living room of the shack, he conjured a blanket and an empty mug, pulled out his Charles Dickens novel for Muggle Studies class and curled up to read. A Warming Charm was cast on the mug and Draco took pretend sips. Tea was always comforting, even make-believe tea.

....

....

....

"Wow," Harry mused, his face and hands pressed against the frosty glass of the window in his dorm. "Wow . . . Ron! Neville-guys! Wait'll you see this!"

Ron groaned and stretched, his blue and white pajama sleeves peeking out of the covers, his bare feet pointed, dangling off the bed.

Neville let out one final snore then shuddered. "Mm, whatsit Harry?" he asked, sleepily.

"Blimey!" came Seamus' voice, as he scrambled over to the window. "Blimey! Dean-get up, you shite! It's like Christmas. Looks just like Christmas! Wow!"

Neville's eyes widened when he saw that the ledge of the giant bay window was half covered in a pile of snow. "Oh, Merlin!" he gasped. "It's up to the top of the window!"

Tired of missing out on the excitement, Ron rolled out of bed and shuffled to the window, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He stopped mid-yawn as his eyes bulged nearly out of his head. "Oi! Splendid!" He galloped up to the window and pushed the others out of his way. "I can't see anything!" he cried. "It's a white-out! Well, come on then! Let's get breakfast and shove snow down the Slytherins' pants!"

The boys agreed, pulling on cozy jumpers, layering long johns under their pants and piling on extra socks. Neville looked like he had gained two stone, as he wobbled about in no less than four sweaters, two pairs of gloves, three pairs of pants and four pairs of socks. "Gran says I have to!" he explained, winding a scarf around his head and neck and securing in a large knot in front of his mouth, muffling his voice. "Longbottoms have poor blood circulation." His eyes disappeared between his hat and scarf as he tried to shrug.

Hermione greeted them in the common room, already dressed for the weather, as well. "This snow is unbelievable!"

"I know, Herm! It's sticking, too. That means it's good packing snow, perfect for snowballs," Ron raved, tugging on her arm.

"I don't know," she said. "The way it's blowing, we might not even be able to go outside. That's a lot of snow."

Seamus made a strangled sound. "Don't be such a spoilsport! Loosen up, Granger. It's Christmas!"

She laughed, but looked skeptical as they made their way to the Great Hall.

As they turned a corner, Dobby the elf appeared in front of them, dripping wet and shivering, a green Slytherin scarf wrapped around his neck multiple times.

"Hey Dobby!" Ron shouted boisterously. "I always pegged you for a Hufflepuff!" Seamus and Dean laughed. Harry waved to the elf, cautiously. Dobby rarely came to Harry without some sort of a mission.

"You're soaking!" Hermione cried, elbowing Ron. "Dobby, what happened?"

Dobby looked shifty, as though he wanted to say something, but was unsure of what to say.

"Hmm, looks like he's hiding something," Ron said. "Must be a Slytherin after all . . ."

The elf's eyes widened. "Dobby is not a Slytherin!" he cried, unnecessarily. "Dobby is not being Sorted. Only Hogwarts students is Sorted by the great Sorting Hat! Dobby has made a terrible mistake. He is a bad elf. A bad elf!"

Hermione threw Ron a nasty look. "Stop being an insensitive prat, Ron! You boys go to breakfast." She reached forward and took Dobby's hand, stepping away from the Gryffindors. The other boys laughed and headed to the Great Hall, but Harry curiously followed Hermione. Why was Dobby wearing a Slytherin scarf? Surely, no Slytherin would give clothes to a house-elf?

Then he remembered that Dobby had been escorting one particular Slytherin to Diagon Alley. Could the scarf belong to _Malfoy_? An image of Malfoy carving a D in the snow flittered into Harry's mind.

Dobby looked even more uncomfortable. "Mister Harry Potter, sir. Miss Harmony Granger, ma'am." He bowed. "I am not supposed to be telling a secret. But he is in danger. Dobby can get the food but Dobby needs your help!"

"Our help?"

"Oh, Professor Dumblydore will be angry with Dobby. So angry! Dobby cannot tell Professor Dumblydore or Dobby will get _fired_ from his job!"

"Tell Dumbledore what?" Hermione asked, while Harry said, "We can help you!"

"Dobby promised that Dobby would not tell, under threat of Dobby's life! But Dobby cannot go back. The weather is too much for old Dobby, too much for him! But perhaps not for the Great Harry Potter…"

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, concern in her eyes. "We want to help you, but we don't understand you!" She and Harry exchanged a look.

Dobby nodded and a bundled basket appeared in his hand. He gave it to Harry. "Perhaps, perhaps only one should go." He kept looking at Harry, who blushed, hating special treatment.

"We can _both_ go, Dobby."

Dobby shook his head, fervently. "No, no. Master M-. Dobby will be killed if he tells this secret. Only one wizard does he need and Dobby knows that Harry Potter knows the way." He bowed his head. "Dobby is not meaning to insult Miss Harmony, as he knows how kind she is being to house-elves."

Hermione's heart melted and she reached out a hand to Dobby. "Oh! It's okay, Dobby," she said gently. She stepped back toward Harry with a frown. "He's terrified, Harry. Who would threaten to _kill_ a house-elf? Honestly! Especially a _Hogwarts_ house-elf?"

Harry looked at Dobby, who looked at Hermione uncomfortably.

She huffed and raised her arms in defeat. "Fine. I'll go to breakfast. But if you need any help, Harry . . ."

He shrugged, clueless to what the elf wanted from him, and waved to Hermione.

Dobby pointed to the basket in Harry's hands. "Dobby Apparated a student out of the Hogwarts wards and now he is being trapped in the snow in Hogsmeade!"

An image of a student struggling in a snow bank came into Harry's mind. "Is he . . .okay?"

Dobby nodded. "Yes, yes. He is safe, but he is trapped in the Shrieking Shack. Dobby trapped him outside the wards and can't get through the snow. Professor Dumblydore will be angry, so angry. Please help Dobby, Mister Harry Potter! Dobby is an old elf. Old Dobby can't make the trip."

"You just need me to bring this to the Shrieking Shack?" Harry nodded to the basket in his hands.

Dobby returned the nod, staring at his feet.

"No problem, Dobby." Dobby looked up at Harry, admiringly, as though he could not believe the great Harry Potter would be so kind. "You've done enough favors for me. It's fine. Should I go now?"

Dobby looked like he wanted to kiss Harry. "You is so kind, sir. So kind to dear old Dobby. Yes, go now, Harry Potter. Be careful. Call for Dobby if you is needing help. Dobby cannot Apparate but he will try to help."

"Okay." The basket was shrunk to fit in Harry's pocket. He waved to the elf awkwardly. "See you."

....

....

....

Sharp, stinging white snow blasted through the door of the main entrance. "Bleeding, bloody hell!" Harry cried, forging his body into a wall of icy powder. An updraft slammed the entrance door shut behind him and he began to trudge through the waist-deep snow towards the Whomping Willow.

Ice cold water immediately leaked through his cheap boots and his teeth began to chatter. An itch on his nose forced him to remove his glove and scratch it. In doing so, he managed to soak both hands and his face in bitter, cold slush and when he replaced the glove he somehow pushed the ice water into deeper against his numb fingers. He scrunched his fingers out of the glove holes and balled them up into wet, tight fists to try and retain some warmth. He made the same attempt with his toes.

After ten minutes of walking, Harry was ready to give up and turn around, but knew that the trip back to castle would be equally as awful. Streaming tears stung his eyes and froze onto his cheeks, and he moaned miserably, but refused to actually _cry_ about the snow. It was miserable, but it would be over soon. Soon he'd be warm in the Shrieking Shack. With some student. Some Slytherin? Some Slytherin that had been associating with Dobby? Harry was only aware of one . . . one who would _not_ want to see Harry.

To make the exertion more bearable, Harry hummed cheerful holiday music. It didn't really help, but it was fun to scream the melody into the wind when it threatened to blast him onto his back.

After another twenty minutes of dragging himself through waist-high snow, Harry was exhausted. The journey was taking triple the time it normally did and his body was completely frozen from waist-down. His toes were beginning to tingle, which was probably a very bad sign, indeed. Harry sniffed, trying to keep his stuffy nose from running. He couldn't tell, though, because his face was numb, too. Blinking was also a chore, as his eyeballs felt frozen open.

He shuffled carefully up to the trunk of the willow tree, praying that the density of the snow would not wake the tree up early. He did not particularly feel like getting walloped by some monster of a tree after risking his comfort and sanity to trudge here.

Harry carefully pressed the notch of the Whomping Willow, and the tree seemed to freeze with the world around it. Holding his breath, Harry crept tentatively into the opening at the trunk of the tree and entered the passageway to the Shrieking Shack.

....

....

....

" _Sing a song of sixpence_

_A pocket full of rye_

_Four to twenty blackbirds_

_Baked in a pie_

_When the pie was open_

_The birds began to sing_

_Wasn't that a dainty dish_

_To set before the King!_

_King Draco's in the counting room_

_Counting all his money_

_King Draco's in the parlor_

_Eating bread and honey_

_An elf is in the courtyard_

_Hanging up the clothes_

_When along came a blackbird_

_And snipped off her nose!"_

Draco appeared to be the picture of cool, lounging on a velvet couch, sipping imaginary tea and reading a book about ghosts, but his incessant knuckle gnawing and nursery rhyme muttering betrayed his image. And just who was he trying to impress anyway? The ghosts who were waiting for him to let his guard down and attack? Dobby, who had forgotten all about him and left him to die of starvation in a haunted house?

Thankfully he had managed to get a fire going. The place was still drafty, despite the patched up holes and Draco was glad that the thin blanket was not the only thing to keep him warm.

"King Draco's in the counting room –" He heard a squeak from below. That wretched rat . . .

No wait-those were footsteps. Footsteps coming from the cellar. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to muffle out the sound with his song.

" _King Draco's in the counting room_. . ." his voice rose in pitch as he clutched his warm mug to his chest. The cellar led out into the kitchen. The kitchen was adjacent to the living room. Where Draco was. Oh god, oh god . . .

"King Draco's in the counting room!" he sang a little louder, resisting the urge to cover his ears. The cellar door was flung open. He covered his ears anyway and sang as loudly as he could. "COUNTING ALL HIS MONEY! KING DRACO'S IN THE PARLOR EATING BREAD AND HONEY!"

Two wet, frozen hands grasped his shoulders. He yelped and threw his hot mug in his predator's face.

He heard grunting and the sound of ceramic shattering, then the deadly hands clamped over his shoulders once more. He shrieked.

"Malfoy!" he heard. The monster knew his name . . .

"No! Go away! Go away!" he screamed, thrashing on the couch. His hand hit his hard covered book. He snatched it up and chanced a look at the beast to be sure he hit it in the face.

Draco watched in slow motion as the book spun out of his hand into the face of a snow-drenched Harry Potter. The corner of the book zeroed in on the saviour's glasses and he yelled in pain as his glasses smashed into his face and the cheap lenses shattered.

Draco scrambled back onto the couch, still too affronted to realize what an arse he looked like. "Potter?" he gasped.

"God! Fucking shite!" Potter moaned, his face in his hands. "What the hell, Malfoy?"

"You're asking _me?"_ he choked.

"You just attacked me!" Potter cried, taking the glasses off his injured face and rubbing at the painful bridge of his nose. "Ow."

Draco, secretly filled with relief at the presence of Harry, drew his shoulders back haughtily. "No, you _emerged_ from the cellar of a haunted house, Potter! Groaning up the steps like that and flinging open the door. You broke _in!_ That's a crime, Potter. Breaking and entering is _crime_."

"You don't live here, Malfoy," he muttered, sounding defeated.

"I, however, have reason to be here. You-you're probably just stalking me, as usual!" Draco peeled himself off the couch and stomped towards the wall. "This is getting _ridiculous_ , Potter. As soon as I'm back to the castle, I'm owling the Ministry to get a restraining order put on you. Harry Pyscho Potter. Stalker of the Wizarding World. I can see it now," Draco drew his face up into an imitation of Rita Skeeter, catching her accent perfectly. "Excuse me, Mr. Potter, how is it that you finally defeated the Dark Lord? Was it a battle of will or wit? Don't spare the readers any of the gory details!" Then Draco changed his voice into an unmistakable parody of Harry's. He stooped his shoulders and scratched his head. "Oh, erm, you know. Just uh, just snuck up on You-Know-Who in the shower is all. He ended up having a heart attack when I popped in. I do that sometimes, you know. Had a good wank afterwards, too. But, really, I'm no hero. It's, uh, all in a day's work, I guess."

Draco paused for Harry's retaliation, delighted in his imitation of Harry. He felt he'd really hit the nail on the head this time. The retaliation never came, however. Harry was, as usual, scratching his head awkwardly.

Draco swallowed. A horrible thought occurred to him. "Potter, _please_ tell me you have never watched me in the shower."

Harry's head jerked up then. "What? No! God-of course not!" Potter looked horrified at the accusation, which made Draco feel just a bit better. Draco raised an eyebrow for no particular reason, then unfolded his arms and tried to recapture the picture of cool that had shattered upon Potter's arrival. He swaggered back to the couch and sprawled languorously over its velvet surface.

" _Reparo,"_ he said coolly, pointing his wand at the mug which repaired itself. _"Accio_ mug." The mug, still warm from the charm, drifted into his grasp. "Now, if you don't mind," Draco pulled the blanket up around him and burrowed into the comfort of the couch, "I'm busy." He Accioed _A Christmas Carol_ and pretended to read, making sure his eyes skimmed the page for believability.

Potter helped himself to the other end of Draco's couch without asking permission. Draco could smell the cold, earthy smell of snow and sweat radiating off of Potter. Potter smirked at the mug in the Draco's hand. "Busy reading, were you?"

"That's right."

"Hmmm," Potter tapped his chin, thoughtfully. "From downstairs it sounded more like King Draco was in the parlour, eating bread and honey…"

Draco flushed without looking up from his book. Potter was such an arse. "It's a song, Potter. A _Pureblood_ song. I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with it."

Potter snorted. "No, King Draco, I actually _am_ familiar with it, just not your personalized version . . . "

"Fuck you, Potter. It isn't personalized. That's how the song goes."

"Is that how mummy sang it to you, your highness?"

Draco's cheeks reddened. It _was_ how his mother had sung it. But he wasn't going to dignify the jab with a response.

"At least I have a mother, Potter." Whoops.

"Is that your only fallback defense, Malfoy? Insult the dead? It's really quite witty."

"Just stating facts."

Potter stayed abnormally cool, and lounged back on the sofa. His leg was touching the blanket over Draco's foot and water began to seep through. Draco jerked back and tugged the blanket with him, casting a drying charm on his foot. "Ugh! Were you born in a barn? Dry yourself off!"

Potter made no move. "Can't feel my fingers," he muttered, trying to flex them. They were raw, red and wet. Potter himself was completely soaked from the waist down. His nose was bright red and he kept sniffling.

Draco shook his head. "Drying Charm, genius. Why would you let yourself get soaked like that? You'll get frostbite or hypothermia, you imbecile."

Potter snorted and shook his head. His teeth were chattering. "G-god, I'm an i-idiot." He tried to ball his hands into fists. "Raised by M-Muggles, remember?"

Potter really looked worse for the wear. His chattering was growing more violent and it looked like he really was having trouble moving his numb extremities. Draco rolled his eyes. "That's a piss-poor excuse, Potter. You've been studying magic for six years." He pulled the blanket off of his legs and transfigured it into a heavy set of brown robes. "Get your wet clothes off. There's only so much a Drying Charm can do."

Potter gave him an odd look, then took the proffered robes with a shaking hand. "Er . . .th-thank y-you."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "And open your mouth. The sound of your teeth chattering is grating my nerves."

Potter scowled, but tried to muffle his chattering with his tongue. He stood up and shuffled toward the fire. "D-don't l-look."

"Oh, for heaven's sakes, Potter. _You're_ the stalker here. And you still haven't told me why you're here, in the first place. How'd you get out of Hogwarts?"

Potter had turned around and was peeling off wet layer after wet layer of clothes and throwing them in a slushy puddle by the fire. Draco watched, amused, as Potter whipped off the pieces and flung them to the ground. Draco took his wand and levitated the pieces up over the fire.

"Hey!" Potter cried. "Put those back!"

Draco smirked. "Look around you, Potter. I spent hours re-decorating this haunted shack. I'm not about to let you leave your sopping rags in a disgusting pile of snow and sweat."

Potter's hands shook as he moved to take off his pants and something flipped in Draco's chest. "No!" He scrambled for his wand. Potter whipped his head around to look at him.

"Th-they're freezing and wet!" he protested.

"We can-I'll charm those, it's fine. They'll dry. I'll charm them." Draco muttered a Drying Spell quickly, then lowered his wand. "I don't want your bare bits all over my blanket, Potter," he added. The room was beginning to feel extremely hot. Perhaps he'd overdone it on that drying spell.

Potter furrowed his brow and shrugged. "Right." He snatched up the brown robes and pulled them on, seeming to snuggle into their dry warmth. Then he collapsed down next to the fire and began to rub his clammy, wet feet with his hands.

Draco wrinkled his face in disgust, but didn't say anything. Then he began to hum his song again, just to be irritating.

Potter kept quiet as he flexed his toes and tried to massage warmth back into them. The only sounds were the creaking of the wind, the crackling of the fire and Draco's incessant humming, which was steadily growing louder.

"Please stop," Potter said, finally, staring at the fire.

Draco hummed a bit more, holding his mug close. His eyes had read the same line of the book more than thirty times. It was too difficult to hum and read. "Stop what?" he asked, then hummed.

"Stop humming! Please."

Draco smiled. "Oh! I can do that. No problem, Potter. I didn't even realize I was humming. You know how those things are." Potter turned to looked at him and scowled. Draco stopped humming.

A minute later he began to whistle the song very quietly.

Potter rubbed his eyes and looked to the ceiling for mercy.

Draco whistled a bit louder.

Potter looked as though he was trying to remain in control. He turned back to the fire. It was quite amusing.

When that didn't garner a reaction, Draco added a little trill to his whistle. Then he began to sing just the last word of each line.

Whistle, whistle, whistle, whistle, whistle " _money."_ Whistle, whistle, whistle, whistle, whistle, " _honey_." Whistle, whistle, whistle, " _hangin up the clothes, when a—"_

"STOP! STOP! FOR THE LOVE OF MERLIN, STOP!" Potter smacked his hands on the ground for emphasis. Draco smirked down the book he was still pretending to read.

"My, my, Potter. Overreact much?" Draco casually turned a page. "I told you, I didn't realize I was doing it."

"What do you want, Malfoy? Are you just bored? Or do you hate me that much?"

"Both, Potter. And what I want is for you to tell me _why you're here_."

Potter reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a soggy, miniature picnic basket. "There," he declared. "That's why. Dobby sent me." He used his wand to enlarge it. It was still sopping wet. "Er…"

Draco said nothing. He just stared, unamused, at the wet basket.

"Maybe, um. . ."

Draco raised an eyebrow. So the old elf hadn't forgotten about him after all? He only chose the most inept idiot for assistance.

The wet basket dripped melted snow and something _else_ onto the floor into a puddle by Potter's feet. The boys looked at the basket and then at each other.

The words _Drying Charm_ and _duh_ hung, unsaid, between them.

Harry reached gingerly into the basket and pulled out a fistful of white, oozy mush with a piece of what looked like bologna in the middle. He wrinkled his face. Draco literally gagged. He put a hand in front of his mouth to make sure he didn't sick up on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

The white mush stuck to Potter's hand and he flung the whole mess onto the floorboards. It landed with a sickening splat.

"I just cleaned this place, I told you!" Draco cried. "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with _me?"_ Potter yelled back. "I came trudging out here through the blinding snow, likely giving myself frostbite to bring you food! The _least_ you can do is—"

Draco slammed his book shut. "Please, do not embarrass yourself and suggest that I _thank_ you for bringing me that pile of vomit and trying to pass it off as something edible!" He scoffed. ' _Thank_ you? I'd like to see you try and eat that shit, Potter. Go on! Lick it up off the floorboards!"

Potter huffed and threw the basket on the floor. A decent-looking apple rolled out, but Draco was not about to comment on it. "What do you want from me, Malfoy?"

"I want you to _leave!_ "

Potter glared and stood up. "Fine," he stated simply. He snatched his wand and began stalking out of the room barefoot, wearing only the brown robes that Draco had transfigured for him.

He wasn't really going to leave, Draco thought. He had no shoes! He—it was a _blizzard_ , for Christ's sakes!

Potter disappeared through the kitchen and Draco listened to his footsteps retreat down the stairs.

He'd be back any minute.

Any minute now.

Surely, without a coat and shoes he couldn't go far?

Draco pulled his knees to his chest uneasily and opened up his book. He heard a creak from next to the window and his heart skipped a beat. Was that creak new? Had he heard it the whole time, but didn't notice it?

A log popped loudly in the fire and Draco jumped. Where was Potter? Was he really going to just leave Draco here in a haunted house? And _if_ he knew some magical way back to Hogwarts, why the hell was Draco sitting here pretending to read, anyway? He should follow him!

Draco stood quickly and squinted his eyes against unknown terrors as he began to make his way to the cellar stairs.

He opened the door to the staircase and was hit with the dry, earthy smell of decay and old dust.

" _Lumos_ ," he said, and held his wand out in front of him, feeling brave. If Potter could go in the cellar, so could Draco. Draco's wand cast a low light and he could see the rotted wooden steps below him and low criss-crossed wooden beams in the rafters above. He ducked, nearly hitting his head and continued lower. There was no sign of Potter.

Something warm ran over his foot. "Yeeaugh!" he yelled, losing his balance as he jumped away. He heard a squeak of protest and remembered the rat that had managed to escape his overeager wandfire.

"Bastard," he muttered, and went lower. Suddenly he heard the door above him slam shut. His breath caught in his throat and his heart felt like it had stopped beating.

Forgetting everything, he turned and pounded up the steps. He got a mouthful of spiderwebs, but couldn't be arsed to bat them off. All he could hear was the repeated mantra in his head: _please don't be locked, please don't be locked, please don't be locked_.

Draco closed his eyes and pushed the door hard. It opened. He ran. He ran through the kitchen blindly and into the sitting room. He ran a circle around the sitting room and ran to the main door. He pushed at the main door but it opened only an inch before it was unable to budge further, so packed in it was from snow.

"Shit!" he muttered, frantically. He tried banishing spells, vanishing spells, drying charms and even levitation charms, but nothing helped to displace the snow outside of the door. Draco was stuck. He moaned, feeling his panic give way to a duller, heightened anxiety. He wanted a drink. He wanted a draught, or a charm. _Something_. Was he really going to be trapped in a haunted house _alone_ overnight _?_ A house with doors that slammed shut at will and had mutant killer rats with hearts full of mischief?

Well he had no drinks and could take no calming draughts. But he promised, _promised_ Pansy that he would not use the Sleeping Charm. Ever again. Did he say 'ever again?' If he hadn't said it, he had _meant_ it. But he hadn't said it. Nor had he foreseen this situation, either. And, really, if he was supposed to spend the night here, there was no way in _hell_ he was going to fall asleep without some assistance.

"No!" he shouted. "No, no, no, no." Draco wrapped his arms around himself and paced back and forth in front of the door, as if it actually offered him an escape rather than a cruel temptation. Just like the Sleeping Charm.

"No," he muttered again. "I don't need it. I'm not doing it, no. But if I did . . . just once more . . ." He trained his wand on himself and stared skeptically at the black rod. So much power in one little stick. With one word, Draco could be flying high, free of fear. He shook his head and dropped his wand in exasperation. "Ugh. No! I don't need it. It's not going to help. Not going to help. No." He kicked the wall. Then he kicked his own shin. "Ow! No-you idiot. You're not doing it."

He dropped his head into his hands and let out a frustrated moan, sinking to the floor in a pile of robes.

_Shuffle, shuffle_. Draco whipped his head up and stared straight ahead.

_Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle_. The sounds approached him until they were directly in front of him.

But Draco was no fool. He was well-stalked and more than familiar with the sound he was hearing now. This was no ghost.

Oh no. Not a ghost. Not yet.

Not until Draco killed him.

Draco blinked coolly and stared up at approximately where Potter's head would be.

" _Accio_ cloak," he stated in a bored voice as Potter appeared before him.

In his pants.

Draco's eyes widened momentarily before he began to laugh.

Potter looked horrified and dove for the brown robe that sat on Draco's lap on top of the Invisibility Cloak.

" _Evanesco!"_ Draco said quickly. The brown cloak vanished. "Ha. HA!"

Potter said nothing. He just stood there, blushing furiously and looking a bit ashamed. Serves him right, Draco thought, as he stuffed the Invisibility Cloak into his pocket and placed a Locking Charm on it. Potter wasn't about to get _this_ thing back. The stupid cloak had quickly become the driving force for Draco's paranoia. In fact, Draco should have just nicked the damn thing on the Hogwarts Express when he had the chance.

....

....

....

Harry didn't even bother asking for his cloak back. He knew he had been acting like a git. He was pretending to be a _ghost_ for Merlin's sakes, just to terrify a highly-agitated Draco Malfoy. It was childish and stupid. And now he was nearly naked. And freezing. Really, truly freezing. Demanding his cloak back was not going to work. Not with Malfoy. If he wanted his cloak back, he was going to have to get clever.

Harry turned from Malfoy, snatched the apple off the ground and plopped down on the sofa.

Malfoy frowned.

"What else is in that basket, Potter? Or is the rest of it as soggy as you?" Malfoy crept forward to peek. Harry Accioed the wet picnic basket to his lap.

"Well," Harry began, taking a big bite out of the apple. "Mmm. There are a couple of things." He chewed and swallowed. Malfoy's stomach grumbled loudly and Harry smirked. "Why? Are you hungry or something?"

Malfoy frowned and folded his arms. "No."

Harry shrugged. "Oh. Good. Well, _I_ am. So, I'm sure you don't mind if I dig in. By the way, I have no intention of leaving here tonight. You do realize that it's a blizzard outside? And that we're snowed in?"

"Ten points for Gryffindor. Great observational skills. Impressive."

"My point is, I was never _actually_ planning on leaving. So you needn't have worried about the ghosts getting you while you're all by yourself." Harry smiled innocently.

"Oh, please, Potter. I'm not five," Malfoy muttered, but he kept his eyes trained on a knot on the wood floor.

"So that's why you came chasing after me, hmm?"

"For your _information_ ," Malfoy plopped down on the other end of the sofa and kicked Harry's feet off of his side, "I was trying to figure out how the hell you got here from Hogwarts. You can't Apparate and the Hogwarts wards are some of the strongest in Britain, save for Malfoy Manor, of course."

"Yes, dark magic makes for impenetrable wards, I hear."

"Stop changing the subject!" Malfoy snapped.

"You're the one who brought it up."

"If you aren't going to answer the question then just say so!"

"Fine, I'm not going to answer the question. But since you aren't hungry, then I guess there was no point in me coming at all."

"Then _leave_."

"Oh, we're back to this again, are we?" Harry rolled his eyes. "You know you don't want me to leave. You're secretly thrilled that you don't have to stay in this 'haunted house' all by yourself. You were scared shitless when you thought I'd left. And your face when the cellar door slammed-oh Merlin! Priceless."

Malfoy pressed his lips together then poked at Harry's bare arm leaving a white fingermark that quickly vanished.

"Ow!" he yelped.

"Cold, Potter?" He indicated the goosebumps that were covering Harry's body.

"No."

"Hmmm. I guess I won't need to Summon that cloak back then."

"The only cloak I want back is my Invisibility Cloak."

Malfoy smiled. "Nice try. Not happening." He patted the pocket which contained the cloak for emphasis, then picked up his book again and began reading.

Harry shrugged, seemingly accepting this. Then he reached into the picnic basket and pulled out two bananas, another apple, two spoons, two bowls, a large, sealed container of chicken soup and a thermos of cocoa. He grinned. "Nothing like hot soup and cocoa on a cold night, eh Malfoy?"

Harry pulled a splintered coffee table up to the couch and set the items on it, one by one. He cast a sideways glance at Malfoy who was peering at the soup over the cover of his book.

Harry, still in his boxers, tried to hide his shivering. He peeled the lid off the soup and large curls of steam dissipated into the room. He leaned forward and took a big whiff. "Mmm," he murmured.

Malfoy turned a page. His eyes were still on the food.

Harry held up the extra bowl "Guess I don't need this," he muttered, stashing it back in the basket. He poured a generous serving of soup into his bowl, then placed the lid on top of the container.

The smell reached Malfoy and he took an audible inhale. His stomach grumbled again and he frowned.

"Merlin, there's so much food here. I'd share but, uh, you're not hungry, right, Malfoy?"

"Fuck you, Potter. Give me that other bowl." Malfoy got up to reach for the basket when Harry locked it shut with his wand. "Hey! That's _my_ food! Dobby sent it for me."

"And, uh, that's _my_ cloak in your pocket, there. It was a gift from my father to me. You give it back and you get a nice big bowl of soup and a steaming mug of cocoa. Oh, wait! You already have something to drink." Harry indicated the hot, empty mug that Malfoy had been pretending was tea. "I forgot. Guess you won't want any of this after all."

Malfoy inched closer to look at the food. Then he shoved Harry and snatched for a banana, but it wouldn't budge off the table.

"You _locked_ the food down?" he asked, incredulously.

Harry smirked. "I did."

Malfoy reached into his pocket and yanked out the balled-up cloak. He held it towards Harry who instinctively reached for it. Malfoy yanked it back. "I want my food first."

Harry scoffed. "No way!"

Malfoy normally would have held out longer, but he was visibly salivating. "Fine. Here." He threw the cloak at Harry, who quickly snatched it up and sat on it.

"And the other cloak?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. " _That_ was not a part of the deal. Besides! You don't deserve it. I was nice enough to transfigure it for you out of _my_ blanket and then you go running out of here and then try to scare me with your little ghost scheme. Which! By the way, _didn't_ work."

Harry looked thoughtful. "That _was_ nice of you," he admitted.

Malfoy's eyes widened in agreement and he nodded frantically. "It was! It _was_ nice of me! And I don't _do_ nice things, Potter. Not out of charity. Never."

"So why did you for me?" Harry took a spoonful of soup and blew on it.

"Because! I didn't want to see you standing around in your skivvies like a pervert."

"Well, you seem to be enjoying it now."

Malfoy's mouth dropped, outraged. "The only thing I enjoy is watching you suffer, Potter."

"Hmm, well, I told you. I'm not cold. So perhaps you're just enjoying the view? I didn't realize you were into that sort of thing, but hey! I mean, who am I to question personal preferences?"

Malfoy balked. "I don't! What? How dare you! I'm not-!" he sputtered. Malfoy quickly Summoned the other cloak and threw it at Harry. "There! Arsehole. Personal preferences. Ha. I suppose you would know all about that, now wouldn't you? Galavanting around with the Weasel, and your freckle-faced in-laws. Tell me, how'd you get into that cozy family again? Was it a union of love? Consummated in matrimony on a great big, bed stuffed with hay? Or was it a bond of power, bringing together two blood traitor families to monopolize wizard farming and poverty? Or maybe—" _Crack!_

Malfoy winced, rubbing his arm where Harry had whipped the bowl. "Oi! What was that for, Potter?"

"Whoops, I missed. I was aiming to plug up your big mouth."

Malfoy snatched up the soup and greedily poured himself a heaping bowl.

"You know," he said around a spoonful of soup, "you should really look into your issues with physical violence. It can't be healthy."

" _What_ issues?" Harry protested, pulling on the brown cloak and wrapping it tightly around himself. "I don't have issues!"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows then shook his head, sadly.

"This coming from the bloke who broke my nose!" Harry cried.

" _That_ was for revenge. And that was the _only_ time I have ever initiated physical violence with you. Unless I was threatened."

Harry scoffed. "Right. And every other time you just started an argument with your fat mouth and let Crabbe and Goyle muscle it out for you."

Malfoy nodded. "Precisely."

Harry realized that this argument was going nowhere. He fought down the urge to swat Malfoy because he certainly wasn't going to prove the prat right.

They continued to eat their dinner in an empty silence, feeling as though their prior conversation had been prematurely abandoned. Harry kept hearing the word "precisely' drawl in his head and wished he had thought of an appropriate remark when Malfoy had said it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please! I love reviews and I'm not too proud to beg!


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm bored," Draco complained. The boys were sprawled on either side of the sofa, having battled for leg-room and settled on an uneven entanglement of limbs. Draco had won two of the three cushions and Potter had to contort his body so his legs hung over the back of the sofa. Now they were lying, relaxed and satiated as the fire crackled, warmly heating the room.

"Hmm?" Potter hummed. He looked at Draco with heavy-lidded eyes. "Why is that my problem?"

Draco sighed. "There's nothing to do here."

"You just ate."

"So?"

"Read your book," Potter muttered and closed his eyes.

Draco scoffed. The book, while not boring, had done a successful job of terrifying Draco. He had only gotten to the part where the rich man was being attacked by the ghost of his old business partner, who was now a wretched, suffering soul forced to live in misery among demons because of the choices he made in his lifetime, namely putting money and power before all else. It did nothing to improve Draco's mood. "It's a stupid Muggle ghost story. It's boring."

Potter chuckled. "You're reading ghost stories?"

Draco grinned. "Appropriate, huh? I thought it was a _Christmas_ story, so I chose it for a book report in Muggle Studies. I thought it would help get me into the spirit of things."

"The _spirit_ of things, indeed. . ."

"Oh, shut up, Potter." Draco snorted and kicked him. "That was horrendous."

Draco could feel the sofa shaking from Potter's laughter. He rolled his eyes then laughed, too.

"Tell me a story," Draco commanded. Pansy would always tell him stories when he was bored. She was a decent storyteller. Draco appreciated her detailed descriptions of people and her interjecting insults that were sprinkled throughout. He had tried to get Crabbe to tell him a story once. Draco let him stutter through eight poorly memorized lines of _The Little Broomstick That Could_ before he took pity on him, but Crabbe insisted that he finish. So determined was he to make it to the end of the story, that Draco realized the tale may have meant more to Crabbe than he knew. For Crabbe's fifteenth birthday, Draco bought him little silver broomstick cufflinks with a note that instructed him to wear them when he wanted to "fly higher and faster than all the rest on the Green Quidditch Pitch." Draco knew that Crabbe loved the gift, and that he wore the cufflinks with his school uniform on testing days.

"No."

"Yes. I'm bored," he insisted.

"Why don't you tell me a story, then?"

Draco considered this for a moment. "Fine."

Potter snorted and raised his eyebrows. "This oughtta be good . . ." he muttered.

Draco cleared his throat noisily then paused before beginning. "In a far away land past a far away sea, a broomstick was built, just as small as can be."

Potter widened his eyes and sat up a bit straighter. "You're serious?" he asked, his jaw dropping slightly.

Draco blinked slowly at him and then continued in a light voice. "His bristles were bushy, the stick short and wide, he hid in the broomshop, too scared to fly. For Bushy the Broomstick was smaller than most, he couldn't compare to the Gilded Ghost, or the Zippy Deluxe or the Moonbeam of Might, no, Bushy the Broomstick was frightened of flight."

"Malfoy. . .?"

"But one day, a wizard named Icarus Tottem, spotted young Bushy and quickly he bought him. 'Such fine, thick bristles, how perfect for speed! Yes, you are the broomstick that Icarus needs.' Heading straight out to the Green Quidditch Pitch, Icarus snatched up a bright Golden Snitch. 'Bushy, I need you to fly like the wind. Fly higher and faster than Gelda McTind!' Bushy's eyes widened at Gelda's new broom. A Gilded Ghost with extra foot-room! The fastest and sharpest broom on the pitch. How would he ever beat Gelda the Witch?"

Draco paused for dramatic effect and Harry shrugged animatedly. "I don't know, King Draco! How would he?"

"Well!" Draco continued. "Icarus Tottem leaned close to cry, 'Bushy, you can! I believe you can fly! Fly higher and faster than all of the rest. Believe in yourself and you'll fly the best!' But could he fly better than all of the rest? Well, Bushy revved up for the ultimate test. He knew he was small and he knew he was wide, but he knew he could do it, deep down inside. Tottem kicked off and Bushy shot forth. He pushed and he soared-he _would_ prove his worth. 'I know I can do it!' he cried from his chest as he pushed to fly faster than all of the rest."

Draco glanced over at Potter, who was grinning in spite of himself. "Well? What happened? What happened to Bushy?" he asked in a mocking voice.

" _Patience_ , Potter. I'm getting there. Merlin." Draco took a deep breath and continued. "He spotted the gold of the Quidditch Snitch and he pushed and he pushed to beat Gelda the Witch when a Bludger from nowhere knocked Bushy with force and Bushy the Broomstick went spinning off course!"

"Oh no!"

"Oh _yes_. But you see, Potter. Bushy isn't the kind of broomstick that just gives up. But what does he do? Well, I have feeling we're all in for a big surprise." Potter smirked. Draco paused and briefly wondered what the _hell_ he was doing. But Potter was clearly enjoying the story, which meant he thought Draco was funny, which beat playing their usual mind games. Draco loved when people thought he was funny because he _was_.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, however, lingered the thought that this _stupid_ and pointless storytelling was the equivalent of Draco digging his own grave. He wasn't sure how, but he could sense it.

Against his better judgment, he forged on. Potter was smiling a broad, toothy grin that Draco had never seen him smile before. He liked making Potter smile like that. And that, too, felt dangerous. He sat up and continued.

"Icarus Tottem was a Seeker, he knew, but Bushy knew just what he needed to do. He bristled his bristles and quietly said, 'I'll whack a Bludger at old Gilda's head, then Icarus Tottem will capture the Snitch and I'll be the hero of the Green Quidditch Pitch! He narrowed his eyes as the Bludger flew past, then threw his stick body into the blast. Bushy heard _crack!_ And the splinter of wood, then took a deep breath-he _knew_ that he could. He raced past the Bludger, he raced toward the Snitch, he raced past the floundering, blood-covered witch!"

"Uh . . ." Potter was frowning now.

"Higher and faster, he soared past the rings to the high-flying Snitch with the golden wings. Icarus Tottem reached through the mist and snatched up the Snitch in his strong, mighty fist! Bushy had done it! He'd helped win the game! But Gelda McTind was never the same. And Bushy the Broomstick learned once and for all, that sometimes to win, others must fall. The failure of others is a small price to pay, in order for broomsticks to get their own way. From that day forward, Bushy flew best. He flew higher and faster than all of the rest. The end." Draco smiled, winningly.

"Er . . ." Potter scratched his head.

"What?" Draco demanded. "It was memorized perfectly. Didn't you like it?"

Potter cleared his throat. "It's, um, kind of _violent_ , don't you think?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "That's why I told it, Potter! I know how much you love violence."

He looked affronted. "I do not! And besides, is that-was that a _children's_ story?"

Draco widened his eyes. "You've never heard _The Little Broomstick That Could_?"

Potter frowned and waved his arm in the air loosely. "Raised by Muggles . . . remember?"

Draco barked out a laugh. "God, Potter! You're completely sheltered! Bushy the Broomstick is a modern hero! He teaches children how to be the best they can be!"

"He teaches children how to hurt others to get what they want!"

"He teaches children how to succeed at any cost! Bushy teaches determination and ambition!"

"Is that really the kind of rubbish that Wizarding children are raised on?" Potter was shaking his head.

"Well," Draco said slowly. "Not _all_ Wizarding children, I suppose. It was written by Hogwarts alum and renowned children's author, Hephaestus Sullen McCray. He was a Slytherin in the same year as my grandfather, Abraxas Ophiuchus Malfoy. I suppose Bushy the Broomstick has a largely Slytherin following."

Potter laughed. "I can see that. It certainly explains a lot."

"What do you mean?" Draco braced himself for an insult, so that he could argue with Potter. This odd . . . conversation, felt, well, odd.

"Bushy the Broomstick would have made a great Slytherin. He was cunning and shrewd and determined to prove his worth no matter the cost to others."

Draco nodded slowly. Well, he couldn't argue that. "Okay. Your turn."

"My turn what?"

"Tell me a story!" Draco commanded, feeling increasingly restless, he began tapping out a rhythm on the cover his book.

Potter groaned. "I'm not telling any stories."

"But, it's _your turn_ , Potter. I gave you a story, now you give me a story."

"I don't know any," he said, balancing his wand between his fingertips and staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. The snow on the windowsills was so high that the windows looked dull, gray. There was a sheen of moonlight that reflected off of the snow and bounced through a sliver of glass at the top of the windowpane. It left a streak of yellow on the opposite wall that acted as a backdrop for the light of the orange flames that danced up and down in the fireplace.

"I don't care. Make one up."

Potter sighed. Draco did not have high hopes for this story. He did, however, enjoy making Potter squirm, which he was currently doing with flair.

Potter pushed his glasses up his nose and stretched his legs out briefly towards Draco's face before throwing them back over the top of the sofa. Draco recoiled when Potter's clammy, bare feet got too close for comfort.

"Okay," Potter shifted uncomfortably. "Ugh, I feel like an idiot. Okay. Um. Once upon a time . . . in a faraway land lived a Prince named . . .uh, Dudley."

" _Dudley?_ Prince _Dudley_? What a stupid name." Draco rolled his eyes. "Come on, Potter! You can do better than that!"

Potter frowned and sat up straighter. "His name was _Prince Dudley_ and he was a selfish, fat, spoiled git who always got his own way even though he was a worthless pile of whale blubber."

Draco shook his head. "This is pitiful."

"Shut up!" Potter yelled. "Stop interrupting. This is _my_ story and I'll tell it how I want. Do you want to hear it or don't you?"

Draco smirked and held his hands palms up in a gesture for Potter to continue.

He huffed. "Okay then. Anyway, um. Prince Dudley was fat—"

"Got that."

"Prince Dudley was _fat,"_ he repeated, "and stupid. And mean. He used to bully kids that were smaller than him which, incidentally, was everyone."

Draco snorted.

"Now, the King and Queen, who were also fat and cruel-well, just the King was fat, but they were both cruel, and, really, it was the Queen's fault that the King and Prince Dudley were fat because she would stuff them full of food all day-food and toys, well, Prince Dudley got food and toys, the King just got food and, um, lawn-care items. . ." Potter paused and bit his lip, glancing at Draco, whose mouth was curled up in a mixture of confusion and disdain. He rolled his eyes at Draco's face and continued.

"Anyway, the King and Queen had a, um, house-elf named Henry. Only he was really a prince, too, but he just _looked_ like a house elf because of a curse. And the King and Queen treated Prince Henry the house-elf terribly. They would starve him and make him do all of the chores and he had to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs."

"That's how you're _supposed_ to treat house-elves, Potter . . ."

"But Prince Dudley was worse. Dudley would taunt the house-elf and call him a freak. You see, Prince Dudley and the King and Queen all _knew_ that Henry was really a prince. They knew that if the curse was removed from Henry, then he would be the next in line for the royal throne. So they never told him. Only Henry still thought he was a house-elf. That was all he had ever known. Sometimes, though, things would happen to Henry that made him think that maybe he was _more_ than just an ordinary house-elf. Maybe he was someone _special_."

"Like what?" Draco asked, curious.

"Well, he could do magic, sometimes."

"But all house-elves can do magic," Draco challenged.

"Not house-elves in, um the Kingdom of Whingington. No one could do magic. No one except Henry."

"Potter-that doesn't make any sense! House-elves are magical creatures! Of course they can do magic."

"Not in Whingington they can't! Just Henry! And he could also talk to s-certain animals. Like the mice in the castle. They were his friends. Bopsy and Mopsy. And Henry and Bopsy and Mopsy would play tricks on Prince Dudley and the King and Queen. Mostly Henry would just tell Bopsy and Mopsy to hide Swiss cheese in the Prince's bed or shoes, but—"

Draco burst out laughing. "Swiss _cheese_? That's supposed to be a cruel trick? This story is like a train wreck, Potter. It's so awful. So, so awful. But keep going! Please. I'd love to hear about the other mean tricks that Henry the non-magical house-elf and his mouse friends play on the Prince!"

"Well, when Henry was caught by the King and Queen, which _always_ happened, even if it wasn't his fault, he was locked in the cupboard under the stairs for three days without any food. Luckily he had stashed away some of the Swiss cheese, even though it turned moldy without a refrigerator."

"…Refrigerator?" Draco mouthed, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "Something that gets rid of mold, right?" That was certainly what it sounded like Potter had said, though his entire story sounded like complete bollocks, anyway.

Potter laughed. "No-it's something Muggles use to keep food fresh. They keep it in the kitchen. It makes things cold. Henry was locked in the closet, though, so there was no refrigerator. Or electricity at all."

Draco nodded, knowingly. "Electricity. That's a Muggle's poor attempt at magic. It gives them terrible lights that need switches. They think it gives them "power." And when it inevitably fails them they say the "power is out." Really, what kind of power is that? Who do they think they're kidding?"

Potter stopped. "Actually, Malfoy, it's kind of a brilliant invention. Imagine if someone took your wand from you. How would you give yourself light?"

Draco rolled his eyes. Potter was such a dunce. "I would light a fire, Potter."

"How?" Potter challenged him and folded his arms. "You don't have a wand, remember?"

"I'd get a piece of flint."

"And if you can't find flint?"

Draco was beginning to grow annoyed. "I'd just carry it with me everywhere!"

"What would you light on fire, then? How would you keep it contained?"

Draco made an involuntary fist. "What is this, twenty questions? Do Muggles keep electricity in _their_ pockets?"

Potter shut up for a blessed second. "Er . . . no."

"So what happens if they are trapped somewhere without electricity?"

"Um . . . a flashlight. It runs on batteries. That's like _portable_ electricity."

"Or _flint!_ That's like portable nature! Portable _fire_."

"You can't use flint to power a refrigerator or microwave or a telly!"

"STOP SPITTING MUGGLE NONSENSE AT ME, POTTER! I DON'T CARE! I JUST DON'T CARE! You can't _honestly_ sit here and say that electricity is more powerful than magic!"

"I'm _NOT_! But you have to admit-"

"I don't HAVE to admit _anything_. That's the big POINT you're missing-the point you _always_ miss. Not everyone is going to agree with you and your Muggle-loving ways. People are entitled to their own opinion. I don't HAVE to agree with you or ADMIT anything. What do you think? You think I'm secretly harboring Muggle-love, but I'm too frightened to _admit_ it?" Draco's face was bright red and he was panting with breath. "I hate Muggles, Potter. I hate them. I hate their ways. I hate their words. I hate their world. I hate them."

Potter stared hard at Draco and didn't say anything. He blinked calmly and held Draco's eyes. Draco, feeling like a caged-in cat, perceived this as a challenge and tried to steel his gaze in return. Draco knew his face was furious and that he had lost control of himself. Potter looked like an adult who was tolerating a child's tantrum, which irked Draco further. And, really, why the hell was he yelling, anyway? Potter was telling him a stupid fairytale. There was just _something_ about Potter that made Draco lose control of himself, without fail. His carefully constructed façade shattered into a million pieces whenever he was around Harry bloody Potter. It wasn't fair. Draco had worked too hard and he had too much on the line, now. He shouldn't be in this damn haunted house with the enemy of the Dark Lord, but he _definitely_ shouldn't be freaking out around him either. Potter must think him completely unstable.

Potter's eyebrows drew back and he bit the corner of his cheek, appearing to fight off a smile. "Just a little," he murmured.

What was he on about? "A little _what?"_ Draco snarled, forgetting about staying in control of his emotions.

He chuckled. "Unstable . . .?"

Shit. _Shit_. He had said that out loud. Hopefully that was all he had said out loud . . . Well, there was nothing for it, now. Draco dropped his forehead into his hand and shook his head. "I said that out loud," he guessed.

Potter cracked a full-on smile. "Yeah . . . you did."

Draco removed his hand from his forehead and brought his chin up, proudly. "So? Elaborate on that, please," he demanded. Potter already thought he was nuts. Better to get it out in the open so Draco could correct it before it became a liability.

_It's already a fucking liability, you moron_.

Potter began to blush. "It's not so bad, really. It's kind of, um."

_Kind of what?_

Potter's voice dropped with his gaze so that Draco could barely make out the rushed words. "Intriguing, I guess." He stared at his thumbnail like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

Intriguing? Potter found Draco's loony bin antics intriguing? Wait. Potter found _Draco_ intriguing? He was intrigued? Draco swallowed as he felt his stomach flip flop. What the hell was that?

Draco chanced a look at Potter who slowly returned his gaze. His cheeks were flaming red.

"Was that supposed to be some sort of a compliment, Potter? Or are you just generally intrigued by mental instability?"

Potter shrugged and grinned. "Dunno. Could just be mental instability. I have been hanging around Luna Lovegood quite a bit."

"Hmmm."

"Plus, I can't imagine ever intending to give you a compliment. Your head's big enough as it is."

Draco huffed. "My head is _not_ big! It's this blasted hack job of Pomfrey's. She's ruined me," he muttered, mulishly. He settled back in a pout and scowled at the fire.

"Were you really going to do it?" Potter asked suddenly, changing positions and drawing his knees up to his chest. "Before?"

"Do what?" Draco realized that Potter's legs had been keeping him warm by proximity and the change in position left him cold and uncomfortable. He rolled up onto his knees, then plopped back, cross-legged on the second cushion.

Potter looked grim. "Sleeping Charm."

Draco had forgotten. His new habit of narrating his thoughts couldn't be healthy. Or impressive. Not that he was concerned about impressing Potter.

No, that was a complete lie. Of _course_ he was concerned about impressing Potter. He always had been! Though, of course, that was under the façade of trying to out-do him. . . so that Potter would know he was better than him. . even though Draco had always suspected that he was not . . . and that Potter knew that . . . which was supremely irritating.

Which would explain why he acted like he did around the speccy dork.

He wanted to impress him.

He would _never_ impress him.

But . . . apparently he _intrigued_ him. Interesting.

"Malfoy!"

Draco jerked his eyes up. Oh, he hoped he had not just been talking aloud. For the love of Merlin's gimpy son, please don't let him have said all that out loud.

"Um," Draco's jaw tightened. "What?"

Potter exhaled heavily. "I know you don't want to talk about it. Especially not with me. But, well, I _know_ about it and. Well. Were you really planning on using the charm?"

Whew. No-wait. The charm. Ugh. Draco fought off the urge to lose control again. That would get them both nowhere. And, really, what did Draco's intentions _mean_ , anyway? He hadn't done it. He hadn't used it. Intention without fruition is merely a thought.

"Does it matter? I didn't do it."

They looked at each other and Draco saw that Potter had a frown on his face. Not a frown of anger or even concern, but of disappointment. As though Draco's intention to charm himself to sleep had somehow personally offended him. Jesus, what an ego!

"Normally, I'd say no. As Dumbledore says 'It's our choices who make us who we are-,"

Dumbledore. _Great._ Thanks, Potter.

"But in this case, I think _yes_. If your immediate fallback plan is to knock yourself out whenever you're scared or-or, whatever, then . . ." his voice trailed off and he looked back at his fascinating nub of a thumbnail.

"I wasn't scared," Draco muttered.

Potter didn't say anything, just looked at him like he was a difficult child again, then raised his eyebrow in doubt.

Draco huffed. "Okay, fine. I was scared. But who wouldn't be? And don't say _you_. I don't care if you're 'The Chosen One,' you would have been terrified if you thought you were being attacked by ghosts."

Potter smirked. "Yeah, probably. But I would have, I don't know, _fought_ them." Draco sucked his teeth and scoffed.

"Consider yourself lucky, then, that I'm not you, or you'd be six feet under."

"At least the war'd be over . . " he mused.

"But you would have lost! You'd be _dead._ What good would that do you?" Draco protested, unsure of why he was. He'd always liked fighting for the sake of fighting. His mother used to tell him that he should be on the Wizengamot. He could argue any side, mercilessly, though he usually just argued his own. Someone had to.

Potter's face hardened and the flickering flames cast appropriately dark shadows under his eyes. It was the look he'd carried around since he'd come back to Hogwarts in fifth year, taller, angrier and every bit the angsty, brooding teen. "No one else would have to die, then," he muttered, darkly.

Potter truly was an idiot. "Of course they would! Are you mad? You think the Dark Lord will just bring peace and harmony to all wizard-kind once he defeats you?" Draco wasn't even sure what he was saying anymore, or if stark truth counted as blasphemy. He was raving and Potter was a moron and Draco needed to let him know. "First he'll kill all your little Mudblood friends, then he'll kill the Muggle-lovers. Then he'll off all of the Muggles, too, just for good measure. Whoever's left over will be so manipulated and twisted that they'll wish they _had_ died, except for those few in the Dark Lord's favor. This isn't a political election, Potter. The Dark Lord seeks complete domination by any and all means necessary. Those who oppose him or don't line up with his ideals will be _wiped_ _out_. You're their only pathetic hope. You're useless to them dead. What a completely stupid thing to say."

Potter was wide-eyed and his jaw hung open. Draco considered making a comment about catching flies, but figured his humor would be ill –received, so he merely raised his eyes, challenging Potter in a response.

Potter's dumbfounded look quickly transitioned to confusion, then anger. "He-you. What? You think that. Wait-what! What are you- _Why do you follow him then?_ "

"First of all, you are making unfounded assumptions about my loyalties." Potter frowned but said nothing.

He had no proof! Potter had no proof, right? As long as he had no proof . . . "But, theoretically, if I _were_ to follow him, then I would be among those in his favor, wouldn't I?"

Potter looked like he was going to vomit for a moment, then shut his mouth and wrinkled his nose. "You just said, yourself, that he can't be trusted. What would be the point of being in his favor if no one is left to lord over? You think you and mum and dad and auntie can just kick back and bask on the beach with Voldemort for the rest of time? No one would be left! What would be the point?"

Draco tilted his head, his eyes glinting maliciously. "If that bothers you, then I guess you shouldn't _die_."

....

....

....

Harry was beyond confused. What was Malfoy trying to tell him? Harry knew— _knew —_ that the blonde was a Death Eater. Why was Malfoy telling him not to die? Wasn't that Voldemort and the Death Eaters' ultimate goal? That was what the prophecy said. Either Voldemort or Harry Potter can live-not both. Was Malfoy unaware of the prophecy? It was the reason his father was imprisoned in the first place. Harry figured that Malfoy had to know about it. So what was he saying? Voldemort was fucked up and he agreed with him completely, or Voldemort was just fucked up?

Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to formulate his thoughts into something coherent.

Malfoy was staring at him, looking inordinately proud of himself for spouting utter nonsense. He was clearly waiting for Harry's next move. Harry knew that no matter what he said, Malfoy was going to disagree with him, most likely because Malfoy couldn't make a decision about his true loyalties. Not that Harry would ever insinuate that when trying to have a peaceful conversation with the git.

"I suppose this is what you meant when you were yammering on in the Owlery about good and evil?'" Harry asked.

Malfoy widened his eyes, clearly impressed. "Wow, Potter. There is a brain under that rat's nest."

Harry gave him a half grin and shrugged. "It doesn't mean that I see it that way, but I suppose it can't hurt to look at things from every angle."

Malfoy clapped his hands. "That's just it! I'm impressed, Potty. I really saw this conversation ending in one of our typical quarrels, with me winning."

Harry nodded slowly. He didn't like what Malfoy had said to him at all, but something about the wording did strike him. Was Malfoy telling him not to die or was he theoretically telling him not to die? If there was a difference, Harry was certain that Malfoy would never acknowledge it as such. But what if it came down to a split second decision for the Slytherin? If he had to choose black or white, what would he choose? And how would he justify it?

"Conversation's not over yet," he mumbled, as he geared up to ask Malfoy the ultimate hypothetical.

Malfoy pushed his hair off of his face, then flexed his fingers. They were remarkably white and smooth, like pools of cream pouring out of a pitcher.

Harry blinked. Pools of cream? Weird. "What if-" he had barely gotten the words out before Malfoy cut him off.

"I hate this game already."

"What if," Harry pressed on, "Voldemort told you that you had to kill me." He paused. "Would you do it?"

Malfoy's mouth curved into a smug smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Ah. Well, there you go. He wouldn't. So that's not a question I have to answer."

Harry was not going to accept that. Malfoy couldn't walk the fence forever. "If you knew that killing me would result in the world that you just described—beach and all—would that be a world that you would want to help create or that you would merely tolerate after Voldemort carries out his plans with you by his side?"

Malfoy grew very quiet and his mouth turned downward. "What are you asking me?" he almost whispered.

Harry matched his quiet demeanor. "I'm asking what _you_ want."

"Do I want you dead? Is that what you're asking me?" Malfoy's eyes were furious storms, but his voice shook quietly.

"Something like that," Harry murmured, afraid of his answer. "Do you want me dead if it resulted in your scenario?"

"It would result in my scenario."

"Then is it what you want?"

Malfoy said nothing. He stared at the floor, away from Harry. Harry knew he was pushing hard, but maybe someone had to. Maybe Malfoy had never thought about it. Perhaps he was just shoved into the whole Death Eater thing by his father and either couldn't—or wouldn't—question it. Maybe it was easier that way. But things weren't easy anymore for anyone and the time would come, whether he liked it or not, when he would have to choose. And by then, it might be too late.

"Is it?" Harry prompted.

"Don't," Malfoy whispered, his face pale. He shook his head barely, then glanced over in Harry's direction, without meeting his eyes. "Just-don't. Please."

Knowing it was a mistake, Harry forged ahead. "Answer the question."

"Drop it, Potter," he hissed, through clenched teeth. "I mean it."

"Do you want me dead or don't you?" Harry demanded, beginning to grow angry himself. Malfoy could stay deluded and live in hypotheticals but this was literally Harry's _life_ they were talking about. How could anyone take that lightly?

Harry's demand was met with blazing gray eyes. "I'll fucking kill you myself if you keep asking me. I'm not answering the question. It's a stupid fucking question," he seethed, balling his hands into fists.

"Sure, hide behind your anger. Hide behind your father. Hide behind fucking Voldemort, just as long as you don't have to answer any tough questions or make any real decisions. Guess what, Malfoy? The time to hide is over. You have to choose- _you will have to choose_!"

Malfoy shot up off the couch and rounded on Harry. His hands were shaking and his face was screwed up in fury. "Don't you think I know that? You never had to choose! The side of light was handed to you. Your choices are easy, Potter! Do I want you to die, you're asking me? How about do I want to live in a world where I'm dead, the people I love are dead, but you live on in peace and harmony? There is no choice for me, Potter! There's only _one_ world that I'll live to see, and unfortunately it's not a world with you in it!"

Malfoy shook as he gulped in breath, holding Harry's piercing stare.

"So, what you're saying is, it's me or you? And you choose you?"

Malfoy lowered his gaze, almost imperceptibly. "You put words in my mouth."

"But that's what you would choose?"

He glared up at Harry again. "And what would _you_ choose?" he snarled.

Harry shrugged. "Depends on the situation, but, if it meant standing for what I believed in, but losing my life as a result, then, yeah, I'd choose you. I might die as a result of all of this, Malfoy, we all might, but at least I made my choice."

For a moment, Malfoy was speechless, and his face softened. Then, just as quickly, he was angry again. "Well aren't you just a fucking saint?" he hissed. "Saint _fucking_ Potter!" Malfoy kicked the picnic basket and it tumbled across the floor. He stalked over to the wall and began pacing. "How great it must be above us mere mortals. What a dream world you must live in, so free of human fucking instincts!"

Harry jumped off the couch to meet him. He knew Malfoy was raving and feeling sorry for himself but _dream world?_ Really?

"Yeah, Malfoy! It's fucking great!" Harry shouted. "Having an entire dark army with the goal of murdering my pathetic arse, it's a fucking dream come true! Do you listen to yourself when you talk, you stupid arse? Yes, my life is just perfect! I'm just a little fucking martyr to you, right?" Harry stomped around the couch and walked right up to Malfoy's face. He leaned close to him and grabbed the shoulder of his robes into a tight fist. "Let me tell you a little secret, Malfoy." Malfoy was frozen, his face set in stone, his eyes barely blinking. "I hate it. I fucking hate it. I wish I were dead so I wouldn't have to deal with the guilt of innocent lives lost on my hands. I didn't ask for this shite, just like you didn't ask for it. Do I want to be in your position? No. But I'm not going to cheapen your reality and pretend like your life is a fucking fairy tale. This sucks. The whole thing _sucks._ We're fucking kids, for Christ's sakes, but we'll both be forced to make decisions that will result in death. You want to be angry? Be fucking angry. You should be. There's only one person you can blame for the situation and that's Voldemort. But just remember, at the end of the day, if you live, you'll still have to live with your choices.

Malfoy was pressed up against the wall. His face was screwed up and his cheeks were blotchy and red. "I know all this, I know this, I KNOW!" His voice cracked and he shoved Harry away from him, promptly turning his back to the boy and leaning his forehead against the wall. "I-Potter. Fuck," his voice choked off into a sob.

Malfoy was definitely crying. Harry took a tentative step backwards.

"Goddammit, Potter," Malfoy voice shook and he punched the wall, weakly. "Why couldn't you have just dropped it?" He sniffed and quickly dragged his hand across his face.

_Sorry_ , Harry wanted to say, but he couldn't. He was sorry Malfoy was crying, but he wasn't sorry for making him question his choices, so he didn't say anything at all.

"This wasn't supposed to be . . ." Malfoy's voice trailed off. "It isn't fair."

Harry shrugged. "None of it is fair."

Malfoy turned to him with red-rimmed, angry eyes. "And you! You are fucking _relentless._ You are _relentless_." Malfoy looked like he was trying to rev himself up for another fight but had lost all of his energy.

Malfoy reacted worse to being questioned than anyone Harry had ever met. "Doesn't anyone ever challenge you, Malfoy? Or do you just always get your own way?"

Malfoy opened his mouth to retort, then paused and frowned in thought. He shook his head slowly. "No," he murmured to his feet, looking unsettled. Malfoy brought his eyes back to Harry and held his gaze as though the thought were a revelation. "No. Just _you_ ," he spat out with less venom than it seemed he had intended. Malfoy frowned down again then turned and walked away from the wall, back over to the sofa. He sat down, gently, on the right side, as though he were waiting for Harry to join him.

Harry did.

A few moments of silence passed in which Harry debated the worth of saying more to Malfoy and wondering, too, if he had said enough.

"Last year," Malfoy finally said, 'Terry Boot was hospitalized for a suicide attempt."

Harry jerked his head up. "Huh?"

"Did you know that?"

Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah, everybody knew that."

Malfoy nodded. "Yeah. Did you know he used to show up to class drunk almost every day?"

Harry looked to the side, then back at Malfoy. Where was he going with this? Terry, who, up until fifth year had been a quiet, well-behaved and studious Ravenclaw, had nearly been expelled the prior year because of repeated incidences of public intoxication and possession of alcohol on school grounds. He did a short stint in St. Mungo's after a failed suicide attempt until he was deemed mentally stable enough to return to school. He had been unnaturally joyful since his return and everyone seemed to be waiting for the ball to drop. "Yeah, it was pretty obvious. He always reeked. And you, arsehole, used to taunt him about it, if I do recall."

"Yes, you do recall. For an entire year, Terry Boot stumbled around Hogwarts, slept his way through half of Hogwarts' easiest underclassmen, stopped showering completely for a time there, then stopped showing up to class altogether."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What's your point, Malfoy? Or are you just trying restart the gossip wheel?"

Malfoy threw Harry a piercing steel-gray stare. "So you knew he was in trouble?"

"I just said I did, didn't I? It was obvious."

Malfoy nodded. "And what did you do to help him?"

"I—what?"

"You saw his downward spiral. You were aware. What did you do to help him? How did you try to stop him before he tried to kill himself?"

"What? That's not-! I didn't. That wasn't my responsibility! It wasn't my place to—"

"But weren't you concerned? If you have such a hero-complex, why didn't Boot register on your radar? Not important enough?" Malfoy had a malicious glint in his eye as his face worked itself into another self-important sneer.

"How can you say that? He was important."

"Don't lie to yourself, Potter. If that were the Weasel, you would have stepped in and tried to stop him."

"Well, Ron's my friend-of course I would have!"

"What am I, then, Potter?"

Harry was at a loss for words. "Um. My enemy?"

Malfoy actually burst out laughing. "So you care more about the self-destruction of an enemy than of a casual acquaintance like Terry Boot? An innocent, well-intentioned, kind kid like Boot? His life isn't worth as much as mine to you?"

Malfoy's words were rubbing Harry the wrong way. So what if he didn't try to stop Boot last year? He had been _busy_ last year. It wasn't his responsibility to save everyone. Although, if Hermione was right about him having a "saving-people thing", then why hadn't Boot's crisis register into that? He was obviously a mess last year. Why Malfoy? Why him? What was Harry's obsession with trying to save Malfoy? He couldn't generalize it anymore and say it was just about saving people. Malfoy had very purposely and very annoyingly just proven him wrong.

"Look," Harry began, his face reddening in embarrassment before he even spoke the words. "I said it before and I wasn't lying. As much as it pains me to admit, I care about you." Harry paused, swallowed his burning humiliation and continued. "I don't know why, and I know it's completely unwelcome, but there you have it and here we are." Harry spread his palms out to emphasize the situation, then let them drop down to his lap as the adrenaline pumping through him threatened to dislodge his knees from his legs.

He waited for the insults to come, but they didn't. Malfoy looked down at his knees with a little satisfied smile. "Oh," he said.

A rush of exhaustion suddenly overtook Harry and he dropped his head into his hands. His muscles in his legs ached and he was still freezing. His teeth began to chatter again and he wrapped his arms around himself and yawned. "Much as I'd like to continue this humiliating chat, I'm completely knackered." Harry pointed to the sofa and then the floor. "How are we doing this?"

Malfoy shoved his legs out across the sofa and usurped Harry's spot. "I was here first. I get the sofa. You can sleep on the floor."

Harry shrugged. It was no more than he expected.

"And I want my blanket back. Your clothes must be dry by now." Malfoy aimed his wand at Harry's clothes and they flew off of their invisible clothesline into a heap at Harry's feet. Harry stared down at them. He was freezing and was not looking forward to changing again.

....

....

....

So Harry Potter cared about him? About his well-being? And not just because he was concerned with everyone, but because he was concerned about Draco. Draco, whom he found _intriguing_. Draco, whose life he would put before his own, but not because he was someone else, but because he was Draco.

Draco fought back a smile at the thought and snuggled deeply into the sofa. Potter was changing back into his own clothes and Draco eagerly awaited the return of his warm blanket. There was nothing like a blanket to fool someone into a false sense of security. Hence the phrase "security blanket."

Draco was not looking forward to spending the night in the Shrieking Shack at all. He predicted a night of tossing and turning without any sort of, uh, sleep aid, but he was glad to have a blanket and, loathe as he was to admit it, Harry Potter's presence to keep him safe.

He scoffed at the thought and tried to block it out, but it kept coming back to him. Draco felt safe here with Potter. He'd probably feel safer with Potter than he would with, say, Pansy or even Snape. Certainly he felt safer with Potter than with his mother or imprisoned father who, up until a few months ago, had been like a loose cannon, spitting out information and news and _opportunities_ that progressively made Draco feel more and more like a stranger in his home. Who were his parents? Had they always cowered beneath the Dark Lord and Draco had just never noticed it? His father had always been a beacon of power and strength in Draco's life, but now Draco just wasn't sure where he stood. If his father had pledged his allegiance to the Dark Lord, then surely he swore allegiance to the Dark Lord over loyalty to his family, just as Draco had. Could he trust his father? His mother? Could he trust anyone?

He could trust Potter. Maybe. Maybe he could trust Potter.

The minute that thought flitted through Draco's mind, a cold voice resounded in his head and he was reminded of his task.

Trust Potter? How stupid. Draco couldn't trust him. What was he thinking? That he could confess his darkest secrets to Potter and Potter would pat him on the shoulder and make him feel better? He was planning on murdering the orphan's father-figure for personal glory. At least that was how Potter would undoubtedly see it. What was Draco thinking? Potter would have _sympathy_ for him?

A face-full of heavy robes snapped Draco out of his revelry. "Pfph!" he spat, wiping fuzz off his tongue. Draco quickly transfigured the robes back into a scratchy blanket and wrapped it tightly around himself, tucking the sides underneath him the way his nurse used to do when he was little.

Potter was standing in front of the fire with his back to Draco, pulling on his trousers. Potter was undeniably fit, Draco decided. He wasn't sure when the lanky loser had filled out, but he had filled out. Draco, while taller than he was last year, had lost some of the definition he had gained when he gave up Quidditch and sunlight. He poked at his own soft stomach in jealousy as he admired the movement of Potter's back muscles in the shadowy orange firelight.

Warmth churned in his stomach as he watched and his breathing grew shallow.

_What the hell?_

"What?" Potter demanded, turning around suddenly and fixing Draco with a pointed stare.

Draco flushed in embarrassment and rolled over to face the back of the sofa. "You're rustling around. Shut up and go to sleep."

Gods, what was he _doing_ staring at Potter like some kind of voyeur?

He shook off the thought. There was nothing wrong with admitting that another bloke was fit by comparison. He was comparing Potter to _himself_ , not admiring him. He wasn't—

Draco cut off all additional thoughts. Sleep. It was time to sleep.

Potter flopped unceremoniously at the foot of the sofa. His breathing sounded rattled and Draco assumed he was still shivering. It was like he was doing it on purpose to irritate Draco, who was doing everything in his power _not_ to think about Potter.

Potter let out a little moan and rolled over. The floorboards creaked under him.

God.

Draco huffed and rolled his eyes.

A strong gust of wind whistled through the shack and the entire foundation groaned. Scurrying could be heard underfoot. Scurrying and scratching. Right underneath the couch.

Potter's teeth began to chatter again and he let out a whimper and rolled over again.

Draco was going to go mental.

A Sleeping Charm would help . . .

No! A Sleeping Charm would _not_ help. He had promised himself. He had promised (not really) Pansy. But most of all, Draco wasn't some pathetic, desperate hobo. He didn't _need_ the charm. He wanted the charm, but he didn't need the charm.

Of course he wanted the charm. That was normal. It made everything _better_ and it would give him what he wanted.

But what if he went out of control on it again? What if he started tottering around and eating coal and wood shavings or something? What if he went into the basement and was attacked by ghosts?

Ghosts. Draco heard a crash in the basement. Oh God. _Ghosts_.

No, mice. Rats. _Nothing_.

Potter made a squeaky moaning sound and rustled in what sounded like a full 360 degree turn on the floor.

Draco huffed, annoyed. He could do this.

Potter shivered again, then rolled all the way back and bumped the sofa, shaking Draco.

Fuck it. Pansy would not know. Potter could get over it. Draco would forgive himself.

As quietly as he could, he turned his wand toward himself and whispered as the shack rattled, " _Somnicorpus_."

The welcome call of warmth and sleep rushed over Draco immediately, providing comfort and relief. His eyes drooped down, his jaw softened and his lips parted opened. His breathing steadied, slow and sure.

And his thoughts returned, this time well-received. What did it mean that he felt he could trust Potter? Draco mulled this over as the flames in the fire danced together, growing and shrinking with the rhythm of Draco's breaths.

Potter's rattling teeth provided a beat for the undercurrent of gyrating cinders, the bass base of the fire dance. Draco grinned lazily and marveled through one open eye at the show that the Shrieking Shack and Potter and the fire and nature itself were generous enough to provide for him.

It didn't matter if he could trust Potter. He wouldn't trust him because the trust would in no way be reciprocated, and what would be the point of that? Potter couldn't trust Draco and shouldn't trust Draco. And if Draco cared about Potter at all—which he _didn't_ , of course—he would leave him alone. So then, if he didn't care about him, he would stick around and bother him? Sure. Yeah. So if Potter didn't matter then maybe Draco _could_ strike up a friendship, after all.

Or had he already without even realizing it?

But if he didn't care about Potter, then why would he bother with a friendship?

And somehow the entire situation made sense to Draco and he understood all of it on a higher level, a level that was above words and above feelings. His consciousness slipped into this higher level and, with complete acceptance and understanding, he also fell completely asleep.

....

....

....

"Shit. Shit!" Harry muttered, throwing vial after vial onto the floor of the Potions classroom.

Shit. Not _this_ again.

Harry stopped, despite the urgency to keep looking and walked out of the classroom into an overwhelming darkness that just felt like . . . like _Malfoy_. Like his essence, his soul, his mind, _something_.

He breathed deeply, and it smelled like rain. It was a non-smell, really, but it still held significance. The darkness was hot, like the inside of an oven, and the static hold it had over Harry made him feel anxious. He wanted to go back to the Potions classroom, but when he turned around, there was nothing there.

Shit.

Harry stepped forward carefully and reached blindly in front of him, trying to ignore the overwhelming suffocation of the darkness in which he was stuck.

"Malfoy?" he called out. There was no answer. Harry pressed forward as the panic began to rise in his chest. He needed to get out of here, but, also, he needed some answers.

It's a dream, he reminded himself. It's just a dream. He listened hard for a response, but all he could hear was the chattering of his own teeth, somewhere far above the dream as he shivered in his sleep.

With full confidence, he Summoned Malfoy. He felt himself tumbling through nothingness until he landed with a crash on hard, cold stone.

"Potter," Malfoy's voice drawled, unsurprised. "That's really you, right?"

Harry rubbed his head and blinked. He was sitting on a stone staircase, like those in the dungeons at Hogwarts. Malfoy was curled in a ball with his knees drawn up to his chest, as though he was hiding.

Harry shivered and wrapped his arms tightly around himself.

"You're still fucking shivering?" Malfoy asked, with something akin to concern.

"I'm freezing," he muttered. "You're not?"

Malfoy shook his head.

"So, why am I here again?" Harry demanded. He blew his breath to see if he could see a cloud. He couldn't.

"Damned if I know. This time I specifically remained on the stairs in my dream, as you can see. Maybe this time you sought me out?"

Harry began to protest, then stopped. He _had_ left the Potions classroom. But that didn't explain why he was in Malfoy's dream in the first place.

"Well," Harry began through chattering teeth. "Your subconscious has come looking for me again."

Malfoy glared at him. "But I don't WANT you here! I don't want your help. Listen—listen to me, Potter. I'm going to use this dream because you can't use it against me, but listen to me and listen good. Stay _away_ from me. Do not trust me. I'm not your friend, I'm not good for you. This will only end in hurt and betrayal."

"Why warn me then?"

Malfoy shook his head. "Dunno," he muttered. "Consider it the only nice thing I'll ever do for you."

Harry looked at him sharply. "Fine. If we're using the guise of this dream to be honest, then let's just be straight and honest with each other. You're going to deny everything said here anyway and there's no way I can prove any of it."

Malfoy sat up straight and inhaled. "Fine," he hesitated then nodded and opened his hands up, seeming to regain his composure. "Fine. Go ahead. What do you want to know?"

Harry stared closely at Dream-Malfoy and noticed how remarkably similar he looked to the real Malfoy. "I can tell you what I already know. I know that you have a task for Voldemort. You as much as told me yourself."

Malfoy bit his lip and stared at the wall. "Did I," he rasped. He took a deep breath then and clutched his knees tightly, steeling himself to speak. He shrugged, rigidly. "I knew you knew."

"So why the pretense?" Harry asked.

Malfoy scowled. "You really have to ask?" he hissed.

Harry shook his head. The darkness around him seemed to pulse with Malfoy's anger and humiliation and fear. Yes, Harry could discern each of these emotions around him as though he were feeling them himself.

"And don't waste your breath asking what it is," Malfoy continued. "I'm not telling you that. I can't tell anyone that." His voice sounded sad.

"Then why?" Harry pressed.

"What makes you think I don't _want_ to do it?" Malfoy bit out, inclining his head and sticking out his pointy chin.

Harry gestured to Malfoy with his hand. "This is not the picture of a happy person."

"Happiness is a fucking sham!" Malfoy shouted suddenly and kicked the wall. His voice did not echo. It was sucked up as though he were in vacuum. His face screwed up in pain, but he ignored it. "I'll never be happy again, Potter. And if I thought I was before I was lying to myself. It isn't real. Happiness is ignorance. At a certain point you grow up and you see the world—and humankind—for what it truly is.

" Power, greed, destruction, lies . . . that's what my life was built on Potter. That is the foundation of Draco Malfoy. You think I'm intriguing? I'm not. This is what I am. Selfish, greedy and power-hungry. The reason I look miserable, Potter? I don't have everything I want. I desire more. And I'm doing every nasty and despicable thing in my power to get what I want.

"I'm just like everyone else—there's no goodness buried deep down inside, if that's what you think. You can't save me because there is nothing to save. A good person would never do what I'm planning to do."

"But a desperate person might!" Harry interrupted. "What is it that you really have to gain out of this, Malfoy? Are you really _that_ power-hungry?" Harry wanted him to deny this, even though it was always what he had assumed about the Slytherin. Until recently, anyway.

Malfoy rubbed his eyes and exhaled heavily. "I'm not like you, Potter. I know you find it easy to sacrifice your life for a noble cause, but I'm just a coward, I guess. I want my life! I'll do anything to keep it. I'm greedy for a . . . for a fucking life, Potter, and a shite one at that."

Harry pressed a knuckle to his mouth and tapped his teeth, thinking. "You know," he commented, offhandedly. "You really have a way of stating a million things at once and hiding what you really mean somewhere at the bottom of it all."

Malfoy rested his chin in his hands and held Harry's eyes in a cold, grey gaze. He said nothing.

"Has Voldemort threatened your life, Malfoy?"

Malfoy stared at him, seeming to consider his response. After some time, he raised, then lowered one shoulder in a slow shrug. "And if he has?"

Harry's thoughts were spinning, but the static darkness seemed to snub them out. All that remained was the desire to _help_ Malfoy, to offer him a way out. "That doesn't make you greedy or selfish. People should be entitled to their lives, if anything! Doing what you can to preserve yours is human. You haven't done anything wrong—"

" _Yet,_ Potter! I haven't done anything wrong _yet_." Malfoy buried his face in his hands. "Just wait." His voice, muffled, was difficult to hear.

"Then do something different, Malfoy! Dumbledore could protect you if you just—"

"Oh, _Dumbledore!_ Oh, God, all hail fucking Dumbledore!" Malfoy stood up and started pounding down the steps. "All powerful, all good, helps Mudbloods and gives to the poor!" He stopped walking and whipped around to face Harry who was sitting on the stone steps, turning his wand round and round in his hands. "And what's _Saint Dumbledore_ going to do to help my parents, hmm? How's he going to prevent the Dark Lord from torturing my m-mother and killing my father, a sitting duck in Azkaban? Answer that, Potter!" Draco walked back up the steps and hissed in Harry's face, "You fucking can't, can you?"

Harry stood and followed Malfoy down the stone steps, the blackness nearly scalding him. He didn't feel cold anymore. He felt hot, smothered, suffocated. "Where are you going?"

Malfoy's voice responded, but it seemed to come from all around, and not from down the stairs. "I need to get the fuck out of here. Out of this stupid dream."

"It's _not_ too late, Malfoy!" Harry called out, changing the words he had said so many times to Malfoy in this very dream.

"Ha, bloody, ha, Potter. Now try and wake the fuck up." Malfoy's voice seemed to grow and melt around him, like warm vanilla ice cream. Harry fought and struggled to get out of the static, black current of Malfoy's thoughts. He pounded on the wall and stomped on the stone floor. He listened for Malfoy, but it seemed that he was gone.

"Malfoy?"

There was no answer. The blackness shifted. It grew colder and sharper, but no less consuming. Harry began to panic that he was stuck in this wretched dream. He ran back down the steps towards the Potions classroom, but there was nothing left. Just sharp, empty nothingness that stole his breath and vision and hearing and tasted like candle wax. He beat his fists on nothingness and prayed for escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please review! Let me know what you think! Or just a quick little review! pleeeeease! -Kristen :)


	9. Chapter 9

Draco blinked heavily. The room around him was pitch black, save for a few smoldering embers left in the fireplace. Fireplace. Wait. His dorm room didn't have a fireplace. Where the hell was he? And what the hell had just happened?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember swatches of his dream that were threatening to escape him fully. Potter. That was no dream. He had just confessed to Potter that he had a task for the Dark Lord.

Potter. Draco heard thrashing a few feet away from him, accompanied with rattled breathing and violent shivering. Shit. Potter. They were in the Shrieking Shack. Why was Potter still shivering? They had gone to bed hours ago. They must have, because the Sleeping Charm had worn off and it was still dark outside.

Draco looked to the window of the shack to confirm this. It was packed with heavy, gray snow that seemed to glow with the light of the winter moon and nothing else.

Potter whimpered in his sleep again. Draco felt mounting concern and, try as he might to shove it away, he just couldn't. He sighed and pulled himself off of the sofa. He held his wand in front of him. " _Lumos,"_ he whispered and crept over to the shivering heap of outerwear at the foot of the sofa.

Draco knelt down. "Potter," he whispered. Potter didn't reply. Draco reached out a tentative hand and shook him gently. "Potter," he said louder, but the boy only chattered his teeth more violently.

Draco swallowed hard and placed the back of his hand on Potter's forehead. It was burning hot. Through the wand-light, Draco could see that deep streaks of scarlet had bloomed over Potter's cheeks. "Shit," he muttered. Potter had a full-on fever. Draco had made him sleep on the floor after he had traipsed through the snow to bring him food and he had made him sit around in his underwear as humiliating punishment and . . . fuck. This was all Draco's fault.

"Potter. Potter, wake up." Draco shook Potter's shoulders a little harder. Potter groaned and whimpered softly. Draco reached for his arms and pulled on them, gently, to try and get Potter into a sitting position.

Potter opened one green eye and moaned. "Hmm? Oh, thanks."

"Come on, Potter. Up you go." Draco tugged on his arms again and Potter grudgingly complied, though he was still mostly asleep. Draco helped to hoist him into a standing position and slung Potter's arm over his shoulder to help him to the sofa. A tangle of coat sleeves dragged behind them on the floor since Potter had not bothered to transfigure any of his belongings into pieces suitable for sleep.

"Thought I was stuck," Potter mumbled, amiably, as he stumbled in Draco's arms toward the couch. "Never thought . . . damn dream." Draco gently laid Potter on _his_ sofa (let it never be said that Draco Malfoy is not a generous fellow) and transfigured the clothes Potter was wearing into warm, flannel pajamas with thick, woolen socks. "'M s-so hot," he shivered. "And c-cold."

"There, there," Draco said, awkwardly. He transfigured Potter's coat into a thick, green blanket and tucked it around him, the way his nurse used to tuck him in as a child. With a flick of his wand, Draco revived the fire in the fireplace and it roared warmth back into the room. Then he cast a Warming Charm over Potter and the sofa.

Draco removed a handkerchief from the picnic basket on the floor and wet it with a stream of water from his wand. He dragged an end table up to the side of the sofa and perched himself on top of it. Potter sighed, contentedly, as Draco placed the wet cloth on his burning forehead. He opened his eyes and stared right up into Draco's face, his eyes glazed with fever.

"Th-thanks, M-Malfoy."

Draco frowned at the boy as he felt a surge of tenderness wash over him. Potter closed his eyes and succumbed to the feverish call of sleep. Draco avoided his thoughts and focused instead on a rhythmic mopping and swiping motion on Potter's face. He dabbed Potter's brow, then held the cloth for two seconds on his left cheek, then two seconds on his right cheek, then dabbed his brow again, occasionally mopping up sweat on his upper lip, but sticking mainly to those three basic spots.

When Potter's skin had warmed the cloth and Draco's fingers were fully pruned, Draco re-wet the cloth and began again.

_Dab-dab-dab-dab, 1-2 switch, 1-2 switch. Dab-dab-dab-dab, 1-2 switch, 1-2 switch._

Draco repeated this mantra in his head until he lost all capability of rational thought and just stared at Potter's face, memorizing his eyebrows, his eyelashes (there was one rectangular chunk missing from his left set), his nose, the curve of his lips, slightly parted, the rhythm of his snores, which Draco worked into his own dab and swipe pattern and the boy's strong, angled jaw which eventually decreased into sparse shivers until it relaxed completely.

_Potter needs to shave._

This thought snuck into the pattern of dabbing and swiping and Draco found his hand lightly stroking the rough growth along Potter's jaw before he could realize what he was doing. And, as though relishing the taste of the forbidden fruit, Draco continued to touch Potter's face, memorizing the feel of his stubble underneath his fingers. The stubble was prickly. The skin was hot. Alive.

A voice that had been pushed way into the recesses of Draco's mind shouted at him to stop, but so hypnotized was he by Potter's face and the rhythm of the cool cloth in his hand that Draco barely registered the warning as he continued to explore the facets of Potter's face.

He reached his hand higher and ran his fingertip across Potter's left eyelashes, feeling a personal attachment to the oddity and wondering if Potter himself had ever noticed that he was missing that chunk of hair.

Hair. Draco's hand found itself slowly raking through the slightly damp waves that marked the front of Potter's forehead. It was soft—surprisingly soft. The wild waves wound about Draco's fingers, seeming to draw them in as though they were made to be a part of the mess.

Before knowing what he was doing, Draco had brought his hand out of Potter's hair and up to his face. He inhaled deeply. He had expected it to smell like cinnamon or cloves or something bakery-fresh, but instead he was met with the smell of oily hair which was just little bit dirty but oh-so _Potter_. He reached deeper into Potter's hair and repeated the action and was shocked to find that the scent that he normally found so repulsive on himself felt so _right_ and so comforting and so—

Oh Merlin. What was he doing? _What in the hell was he_ _doing?_

Draco snatched his hand away from his face and turned quickly from Potter, fully horrified. He placed the cloth on Potter's brow and patted it twice, in manly finality, to ensure that it would stay. Then he stood and backed away from the boy, tripping over the end table in the process.

Draco stumbled over toward the fireplace, snatched up his blanket, and made himself a nice, cozy spot by the fire. He cast a Cushioning Charm on the floor beneath him and a Warming Charm around him, despite his proximity to the fire that was slowly dying. How long had he been dabbing at Potter?

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the image of Potter's face was burned like light in his retinas. Instead of fighting it, he relished its comfort and drifted off to sleep as his brain pounded away the rhythm: _dab-dab-dab-dab, 1-2 switch, 1-2 switch._

....

....

....

The next time Draco woke, streams of greenish light crisscrossed through the slats of the shack. He shivered, as only his Cushioning Charm had lasted through the night, and surveyed the room, which had returned to its mostly drab decor. Some of the room charms were still in effect, such as the yellow painted walls and the sofa, but the rest of the room had crumbled back to decay at some point in the night.

Draco stretched deeply, listening to the blood rush in his ears. He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, picked up his wand and approached Potter, who had turned onto his side in the night. The wet cloth had fallen to the floor and it left a wet square on the rotting wood when Draco lifted it to set aside on the table.

Potter's hair and the front of his pajamas were soaked in sweat, but his cheeks still burned crimson.

"Potter?" Draco chanced, resting a hand on Potter's shoulder. Potter recoiled from the touch and moaned as if in pain.

"Potter, wake up," Draco commanded and shook the boy, feeling guilty.

"What? What is—?" Potter's eyes squinted open, looking, first, shocked and then accepting. He turned to Draco with glazed, feverish eyes and tried to sit up. Draco gently placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the sofa.

"How do you feel?"

Potter coughed a dry, hacking heave. "I'm fine. We have to leave." He struggled to stand up, but Draco held him in place with the palm of his hand. "Malfoy! We have classes. It's Monday!"

Draco frowned and plopped down on the coffee table, fixing Potter with a cold stare. "Don't lie to me, Potter. I wasn't asking as a formality. I need to know exactly how you feel so that I can treat your symptoms."

"I'm—"

"Before you tell me you're fine again, I'll have you know that I was up half the night trying to help you break your fever. I'm guessing it's the flu, but I'm not a mind-reader and I need to know your symptoms. Now, I'll ask you again and this time you'll answer honestly. How do you feel?"

"Like absolute shite," Potter murmured.

Draco drew his brows together then crossed his arms. "Elaborate."

"Fever, I think," Potter coughed and gestured to himself. "Cough. Sore throat. Everything aches. My back, my neck, my knees, my calves, everything. I feel like I could sleep for days."

Draco pressed his lips together and frowned. Then he nodded once, to himself, and picked up his wand. He muttered a quiet incantation and Potter's face relaxed as his body was eased of its muscle pains.

"Thank you," Potter sighed in satisfaction "Much better. What was that?"

"It's a spell for pain that I learned from my nurse."

Potter closed his eyes. "Madame Pomfrey?" he asked, sleepily.

"No, it's—" Draco heard light snores coming from Potter who had dozed off. "Nothing."

....

....

....

Draco had tried calling for Dobby, pleading for Dobby, clapping for Dobby and praying for Dobby, but so far none of these methods were remotely successful. Draco and Potter were still stuck. Potter was too sick to make the trip back and Draco didn't know the way, but it apparently consisted of miles of waist-deep snow walking, which, Warming Charm or not, he was not going to make Potter do in his condition.

Potter had been sleeping for more than sixteen hours at this point, according to a crudely cast Tempus Charm. Draco's stomach grumbled for food and he knew that Potter needed to eat, too. They had stupidly eaten all of the food the day before except for one, mealy apple. Draco Engorged the apple to the size of a large pumpkin, sectioned it off into preserved pieces and stashed the rest in the picnic basket after cleaning it out. He broke off a few slices for himself and did the same for Potter. He cleaned out the soup thermos and filled it with fresh water.

"You need to eat," he commanded, gently, nudging Potter on the side. Potter looked up at him groggily and smiled. "Sit up."

Potter pulled himself into a sitting position, scooting back on the couch.

"Here," Draco offered the fruit. "I wish we had saved that soup, but . . . unfortunately you hogged all of that yesterday, so—"

Potter's voice was weak. "I did not _hog_ all of it," he protested, reaching for the apple slices. He piled his share into a divot in the blanket and selected the whitest slice to eat first. "This is fine, anyway. Thanks."

Draco shrugged and sat on the corner of the table. The position reminded him of hours of midnight dabbing and touching Potter's face. Heat crept over his ears and he turned away, swallowing.

"You need to keep drinking water," Draco said to the floor. "Your fever needs to break."

Potter shrugged. "Okay." He reached back and rubbed his shoulder, letting out a small, miserable moan.

Picking up the thermos and depositing it in Potter's lap, Draco ordered, "Here. Drink. I'll, um. I'll do that."

Potter crinkled his forehead and looked at Draco with fever-bright eyes. "Do what?"

Draco felt his flush creeping down his neck, but he'd already offered and, besides, he knew how awful the flu felt and Potter need to drink that water and just—

He walked to the edge of the sofa. "Move," he ordered and pushed Potter's hand off of his shoulder.

"What-?"

"Just. Shut up, Potter." Draco squeezed himself into a spot by Potter's head, grimaced and began to rub tentative circles on Potter's back.

"Oh," Potter responded immediately. "Oh my God." He closed his eyes and melted into Draco's touch.

Draco avoided thinking as he massaged Potter's shoulder in rhythm. _Squeeze, squeeze, circle, circle, circle, circle. Squeeze, squeeze, circle, circle, circle, circle._ Draco was certain that he mumbled the beat under his breath at some point, but if Potter noticed, he didn't say anything.

Silence stretched between them as Potter nibbled on his apple slices and sipped his water, and Draco kept up the rhythm that prevented him from thinking about what he was doing. He had enough on his mind as it was. Massaging his mortal enemy's fevered body was not something he needed to think about.

"Why are you doing this?" Potter's voice bumped along with the beat of Draco's circling palm.

Draco pulled his hand back as if stung. "If you want me to stop, just say so." The words came out colder than he had intended.

Potter turned to hold Draco's eyes in a muddled, feverish gaze. "No, that's not—" Potter rattled a cough. "Just. Why are you being nice to me and taking care of me?"

Draco pulled himself up into a haughty posture. "Don't get the wrong idea. It's not because I _like_ you or anything, Potter."

"Okay." Potter smirked. Draco had a sinking feeling that Potter _had_ gotten the wrong idea.

"There are two reasons. One, it's my fault that you're sick in the first place. Two, you were uh, _mildly_ helpful to me a few weeks back." Potter snorted. "And also, we need to get back to that bloody castle and I'm not dragging your fevered arse all around town. You'd just slow us down."

"Mmmm," Potter mumbled and curled onto his side with his head in Draco's lap. "That's three."

Three? What? Oh. Reasons.

Draco carefully lifted Potter's head off of his lap, stood and set the messy thing gently onto the sofa.

"Now go back to sleep. I'll keep praying for Dobby," Draco muttered, hopelessly.

Potter groaned like a two-year-old. "'M bored of sleeping," he yawned.

Draco reached down and snatched up _A Christmas Carol_. "Here. Read." He tossed the copy of the book over the wrinkle in Potter's blanket that now held one brown, rejected apple slice. "It's all the fun of ghosts and yuletide spirit wrapped up in one small, entertaining package. Like me!" he added, then felt immediately stupid for saying it.

Potter scoffed and clutched the book, instinctively. "Yes, you're all the fun of ghosts and yuletide spirit." He shivered, then opened one eye and fixed it imploringly on Draco. "Malfoy, would you mind getting me that other blanket?" Potter visibly steeled himself for the certain retort, but it never came.

"Uh, sure." Draco stood up, walked toward the fireplace and snatched up the scratchy blanket that he had abandoned in a heap upon waking. He carried it over to Potter and placed it carefully over him. Draco gently removed the book from Potter's clammy grasp and set the book and the brown apple slice on the end table. He was tempted to tuck Potter in properly, but was reluctant in the broad light of day. He settled for tugging out the wrinkles and covering any bare spots. Exposing Potter's skin would be counterproductive in every respect.

"Thanks, Malfoy."

....

....

....

"'Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind-stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint-' Oh, will you look at that, Potter? _Flint!_ Notice that the words are not 'hard and sharp as electricity.' Even Muggles know the importance of flint."

"Marcus Flint," Potter murmured with a grin. The boy was either joking or in the throes of fevered delusions.

"Marcus Flint," Draco mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Marcus Flint, indeed, Potter. Marcus Flint, indeed."

"Mmm," Potter agreed.

"You really are a charming conversationalist."

Potter smirked.

Draco cleared his throat noisily and continued. "'Hard and sharp as _flint_ from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice—"

"Sounds like you."

"Me?" Draco supposed he was right and took pleasure in what was likely intended to be an insult. "Perhaps."

"Except the grating voice. You've a drawl. A jolly drawl." The corners of Potter's mouth curved up as he rolled over onto his side.

_Jolly?_ Draco had been called a lot of things in his life, but 'jolly,' no matter the context, or excuse of fever, was never one of them.

"Jolly!" Draco cried, outraged. "I take offense to that, Potter!"

Potter just smiled with his eyes closed.

"I'm not jolly," he muttered, petulantly. "You're jolly. _Giants_ are jolly, Potter. Like your oaf friend who lives in a hut. He's _jolly._ "

"Hey-Hagrid's not jolly," Potter protested feebly, forgetting that 'jolly' was not actually an insult.

"Whatever, Potter."

Draco's stomach grumbled loudly, but he resumed his reading as a distraction. The light was growing higher in the sky over the sliver of exposed window, indicating the approach of noon.

....

....

....

Harry's mind swam in a confused, fevered flurry of ideas, dreams and snatches of senseless conversation. There were brief moments of lucidity, but overall he was never quite certain if he was awake or asleep or if what was happening was real.

Several things stood out in his mind, coloring the rest of his thoughts and pumping them along like an undercurrent. Among them was Malfoy's dream confession of allegiance with the Dark Lord. Another was that Malfoy was undeniably taking care of him. These two dissonant thoughts kept colliding in Harry's mind, causing him to doubt his perception of reality.

On top of that, he was in the Shrieking Shack, vaguely certain that he had just been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Past who bore a striking resemblance to Slytherin Chaser, Marcus Flint.

Flint had taken Harry on a broomstick ride back in time to revisit important memories from his past and show him 'shadows of things that had been.' Harry had stood with Flint and watched himself as a child. His father bounced him on his knee and his mother fed his father a chocolate biscuit and a light kiss and called him "Love." Harry cried out as he witnessed his parents' murders and felt stabbing pain go through his forehead where the Killing Curse had hit.

Unwelcome guilt surged through him when he rejected Malfoy's offer of friendship on the Hogwarts Express. As his eleven-year-old self turned away proudly with Ron, Harry looked closely at young Malfoy's sneering face and, this time, he could see that Malfoy's nasty look was tinged with pain and humiliation. At this, Flint shoved Harry and called him an idiotic arsehole and refused to show him any more memories.

"But, Spirit! I didn't know him then!" Harry protested.

Flint sneered. "A fine job you did trying."

"I was wrong, okay?"

Flint backed down quickly and shrugged. "Just wanted to hear you say it." Flint then snatched Harry's wrist and took off on his broomstick to the next memory. Harry yelped as he dangled in the sky from the spirit's cold hand. Harry and Flint swirled through a blizzard of snow, hundreds of feet off the ground, then crashed into a graveyard.

An awfully, horribly familiar graveyard.

"No-Flint! Please. Not this!"

Cedric Diggory, alight with the exhilaration of winning the Triwizard Tournament turned to Memory-Harry in confusion.

"Where are we?" he asked, a smile still decorating his young and handsome face.

"Flint!" cried Harry, desperately. "Remove me from this place."

"I told you these were shadows of the things that have been," Flint drawled, remorseless. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!"

"Remove me!" Harry pleaded, "I cannot bear it!"

A flash of green light shot through Harry's field of vision and he jerked awake, drenched in sweat.

"'He turned upon the Ghost,'" Malfoy eyed Harry with concern but kept reading. "'And seeing that it looked upon him with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it. 'Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!''"

"Flint!" Harry gasped, clutching at his sweat-soaked throat.

"Potter?" Malfoy dog-eared the page and set the book beside him. "Are you okay?"

Harry was gasping for breath and confused. So confused. "What-?" He swallowed and shook his head. "What the hell? Am I awake? Is this-? I'm so fucking . . ."

Malfoy smiled slightly, then reached his hand forward and laid it on Harry's forehead. It was cool and comforting and helped to bring Harry more solidly into reality. "You're awake," he confirmed, then placed his hand on Harry's right, then left cheek. "And I think your fever is finally breaking."

"Oh." Harry blinked hard and swallowed, trying to clean the nap out of his sleep-sticky mouth.

"Here." Malfoy thrust the thermos into Harry's face. "Drink up."

Harry took the water and gulped gratefully.

"You know," Malfoy said, and picked up his book again. "This book's not terrible. I rather like that Scrooge fellow."

"The book's a nightmare," Harry grumbled, unable to shake off the The Flint of Christmas Past. "And you _would_ relate to one of the most miserable, hated characters in all of literature."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows, unaffected. "Better than being described as 'jolly.'"

"Huh?"

He rolled his eyes. "Never-mind."

"Sorry, no," Harry said, mouth curling into a grin. "I thought I dreamt that."

"No, arsehole, you said it."

Suddenly there was a loud crack. Malfoy, who had been visibly on edge all day, jumped up and yelped.

"Dobby!" Harry weakly rasped.

"Oh, thank MERLIN." Malfoy dramatically brought his hand up to his heart. "It's about time, you wretched elf! You abandoned me. And sent me _that!"_ He pointed accusingly at the pile of Harry and transfigured blankets on the sofa.

"Dobby is terribly sorry, young Master Malfoy! Dobby is being unable to Apparate until just now. Weazy's Weather Watcher says we are having only a short time to Apparate back before the storm is starting up again."

Malfoy was already gathering up his belongings. He stuck his arm through the sleeve of his heavy winter coat. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Dobby approached Malfoy, reaching a hand out to him. Malfoy jerked back. "What are you, blind? Take Potter first, Dobby! Merlin's sakes."

Dobby blinked his large eyes toward Harry and stepped back. "Of course. Harry Potter is ill. Dobby should have noticed. Dobby is so very sorry. Harry Potter is ill and it is all Dobby's fault! Dobby is a bad, bad elf. Harry Potter is Dobby's friend and now—"

"Dobby," Malfoy commanded, abandoning his cloak and stepping up to the elf. He placed a comforting hand on Dobby's shoulder. The elf winced instinctively. "It's fine. I overreacted. You are not a bad elf. Now stop wasting time and take Potter back to the castle." He narrowed his eyes and raised a finger in warning. "Not another word."

Dobby nodded in agreement, then swallowed and pressed his brown sardine-lips together to demonstrate his silence. He ambled quickly to Harry and, with a crack, the two were gone.

Harry landed in a heap on the floor of the front entrance of Hogwarts and Dobby immediately Disapparated.

Wrapped in blankets and resembling a yeti, Harry slunk in the direction of the Gryffindor Common Room. Another crack sent Malfoy stumbling gracefully into the front entrance of Hogwarts with Dobby. The Slytherin brushed off his trousers and-without a glance at the elf or Harry-stalked off toward Hogwarts' East Wing.

Though Hogwarts was warm and welcoming, Harry couldn't seem to shake off the lonely, jarring chill that accompanied his quick departure from the Shrieking Shack. He shivered and dragged himself back to his dorm.

"Oh Harry!" Hermione shrieked, knocking a pile of dusty books onto the floor as she tripped to the portrait entrance. She stopped suddenly and dropped her hands at her sides, her face full of concern. "Oh, Harry," she shook her head in sympathy.

Harry's eyes were barely slits in his face. He opened his mouth to greet her but let out a dry, heaving cough that had the word "Hermione" mixed somewhere in the middle.

Seamus jumped out of his spot at the chess table. "Jaysus. Harry, you look like shite. Come on, mate. No class for you today." He gathered up an armful of mittens and and blankets and led Harry up to his room.

"Feel better, Harry!" Hermione called behind him.

"Thanks," he muttered.

....

....

....

Draco seethed when he thought about it, so he tried not to.

But he couldn't help it. Not without some kind of incessant rhythm to drone out his thoughts.

One full day lost. He had wasted one full, entire day, plus a few hours, telling ghost stories and nursing an enemy back to health. He should have been working on the Vanishing Cabinet or figuring out how to get the cursed necklace to Professor Dumbledore without getting caught.

Ha. Fat chance of that. What did he think would happen? He would commit his little crime then disappear and no one would ever suspect him? He'd be thrown straight into Azkaban! And worse, Potter now _knew_ that he was planning something. As soon as it happened, all signs would point to Draco.

The guise of a dream. What a completely stupid and dangerous move. Oh, yes. Potter has no concrete evidence because he was told in a dream. Since when did Potter ever have concrete evidence? Didn't he get those damn psychic premonitions all the time? Isn't that how Mr. Goyle had said that Potter found Draco's father in the Department of Mysteries last year? Fucking Potter found him through a _dream_ and his father was thrown in jail because of it!

The only thing Draco could count on at this point was that Potter's fevered delusions would stir up doubt in his mind.

But really, what kind of an idiot would Potter have to be to doubt that? Potter already suspected him. In the dream Potter said that Draco had "so much as told" him already. Who was Draco fooling?

Not Potter.

Everyone else. He HAD to be fooling everyone else.

Draco Scourgified his clothing and mouth, transfigured his scarf into a small, black cap, shrunk his cloak and outerwear and headed straight to Advanced Arithmancy, hoping Vector would not mind that he was five minutes late and lacking all of his school supplies.

Whatever. Vector should be pleased that Draco had bothered to show up at all, considering his current year's track record, plus recent hospitalization. Infirmirazation. Ugh. He was sweating. Gross.

Draco's weatherproof dragonhide boots were perhaps overkill for a Monday Arithmancy lesson, but . . . ah, well.

The halls of the East Wing of Hogwarts had large, floor to ceiling windows. Draco had not been able to get a solid glimpse of the snow in the Shrieking Shack, but there it was, laid before him in a sun-glinting, picturesque window. Hogwarts was white. Tree branches bowed low on the edges of the Forbidden Forest, weighed down by heavy snowfall. A covered balcony slightly south of him looked like a snaggle-tooth with a cavity, jutting out of the castle wall.

It reminded Draco of Crabbe.

Crabbe had had a snaggle-tooth with a cavity when he was seven. He had cried about it and told Goyle not to tell anyone, because cavities were what happened to little wizards who picked their noses. Or so said his cousin.

Goyle, of course, told Draco. Draco and Goyle laughed at Crabbe and teased him about the fact that he picked his nose and the fact that cavities were actually what happened to little wizards with poor oral hygiene.

Crabbe was so embarrassed that he tried to spell the tooth out of his mouth, but he was young and not very bright and kept spelling the nose off of his face until, finally, in a brute, Muggle act of desperation, Crabbe tied his tooth to a doorknob and slammed the tooth right out of his mouth.

It wasn't the kind of tooth that grew back. Crabbe had a gaping hole in his mouth ever since. Goyle had patted him on the shoulder and told him that the gap was better than having a snaggle-tooth. Draco had told Goyle not to touch Crabbe because he was dirty and probably had snot on his shoulder.

Draco walked into Arithmancy feeling like a really terrible friend. It had seemed funny at the time but, now that he thought about it, it wasn't very nice at all.

And even worse, he thought, while taking his usual seat next to Blaise, Draco had picked his nose, too.

Draco was torn out of his reverie when a crumpled paper fell onto his side of the shared desk.

_Find another seat_

The words, plain and unpunctuated, brought Draco back to reality.

Right.

All of Hogwarts still thought he was a monster except for Pansy and, well, Potter. And Dobby, of course.

Good old Dobby. Dear old Dobby.

Fighting the urge to throw the crumpled paper in Blaise's nasty, sneering face, Draco stood with grace, snatched up the paper and strolled regally across the room to sit in the only empty seat next to . . .

Ah. Terry Boot.

Boot greeted Draco with a surprised grin. "Uh, hi, Malfoy!" he said, brightly.

Draco pressed his mouth into a tight line that maybe, if you were the saddest kind of person and had never witnessed a single, happy thing before, could be perceived as a smile.

But this was post-Mungo's Terry Boot and Draco's semi-sweet morsel of graciousness was well-received. Boot grinned and nodded.

_I have alcohol in my bag_ , he wanted to say. _I hear the Hufflepuff second years are an easy lay. Care to verify that?_ Draco had a whole list of fun things he used to say to Boot last year but, reeling from Blaise's outright rejection, Draco's heart just wasn't in it.

"Here," Boot whispered, and nudged his Arithmancy notes towards Malfoy, who granted him another tight-lipped grimace of appreciation. Draco smoothed out the crumpled parchment from Blaise, turned it over and began copying the notes.

Boot had girl handwriting, Draco thought. It was nothing like Draco's admittedly feminine, but fancy, scrawl. Boot's handwriting resembled that of a ten-year-old girl. The letters were loopy, the t's and y's had curly tails and the occasional lower-case i was dotted with a circle. A circle! Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Why not a heart? Or a pumpkin? Or a little bottle of Firewhiskey?

"Do you have last week's notes?" Draco whispered. Potter was not quite bright enough for Advanced Arithmancy and Blaise certainly wasn't about to share his notes.

Boot nodded knowingly. "Right. _Mediterranean Virus_. I heard."

Draco did not like the way he said it. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing. Only . . ."

"Only what?"

"I had it last year."

Draco scowled. "So? What are you implying, Boot?"

Terry Boot fixed him with a no-nonsense stare. "You didn't have the Mediterranean Virus, Malfoy."

Professor Vector was quickly approaching their desk. Draco swallowed his retort and snatched the proffered notes from Boot.

Terry Boot. What a self-righteous know-it-all. What did he think? Draco was hiding a suicide attempt or something?

_He kind of was_ . . .

No, he wasn't. Draco's incident was completely unintentional.

" _You'll die! You idiot."_

" _Then I guess that solves one problem for you . . ."_

Draco cringed at the memory and scowled at Boot. How would he know if Draco had the Mediterranean Virus or not? Ravenclaw tosser. Who did he think he was?

Whatever.

Draco began to furiously scribble Boot's notes onto his own parchment. For fun, he dotted the i's in "Transitive Property of Unforgivables" with tiny, detailed bottles of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. He noticed Boot watching him over his shoulder and he shifted so that Boot couldn't see his parchment.

In front of Boot was some sort of a Quick Quotes Quill that was skating around on his parchment.

Draco had always preferred traditional quills for his work. They were more accurate, plus they allowed him the freedom to design the notes so that they would make sense to him.

He organized his parchment into several boxes of information. He capitalized important words, underlined concepts and drew arrows and bullets to emphasize important ideas. You couldn't do those sorts of things with a Quick Quotes Quill. Those quills interpreted the speaker's words and then presented them in a boring, listed fashion.

Except, Draco noticed, Boot's notes from last week certainly weren't taken with a Quick Quotes Quill. If they were, it was from a new line of quills for effeminate tossers like Boot.

Draco snuck a curious peek over his shoulder at Boot's parchment. The quill was sketching Professor Vector in polka-dot pants wearing a tiny hat with a feather sticking out of it. A speech bubble came out of his mouth saying "If A Imperios B and B Imperios C, then A Imperios C." The quill then scrawled a mustache across Vector's face that said "Transitive Property."

"You're fucked up, Boot," Draco muttered.

Boot shrugged. "Probably," he whispered back. "But I have the highest test scores in class."

"For a drunk."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

....

....

....

Draco folded his wrinkled, copied notes into a neat bundle, shrunk them and stuck them in his cloak pocket. As he turned to leave he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He lunged for his wand, thinking it was Blaise, but when he turned around it was just Terry Boot. Ugh.

"What do you want, Boot? Besides a thermos of alcohol?" Draco was not in the mood for Boot's bullshit. He stuffed the wand back into the recesses of his robe before anyone could notice his overreaction.

"I could see you didn't understand anything Vector was saying today. Let me tutor you." Boot was smiling kindly and it was rubbing Draco the wrong way.

"Why? What's in it for you?"

Boot tossed his head to the side. "I want to talk to you."

Draco huffed and opened his hands wide. "Here I am. Talk."

"What's in it for me, _Malfoy_ , is that I talk to you where I want and when I want." Boot's eyes held a bit of a mad gleam and Draco remembered that the boy, despite outward appearances, skated on the edges of crazy.

Draco swallowed. He did need the help. Blaise was not going to help him and he had to keep up his stellar-student pretense to avoid suspicion. "Fine. Where and when?"

Boot looked shocked that Draco had given in so easily. He quickly recovered his scheming, Ravenclaw look. "Hogwarts Chapel, North Wing. 8 o'clock tonight."

Wait. Hogwarts had a chapel? "Hogwarts has a chapel?"

Boot smirked. "It's not really a chapel, wanker. Go down the north corridor until you get to the staircase at the end of the hallway. Take it down two flights. Take an immediate left and then go into the second door on the right."

Draco repeated the instructions to himself twice. He scowled at Terry Boot so that he would know that this complicated excursion had better be worth his time.

"See you later, Malfoy." Boot patted him on the shoulder and strolled off, smiling, through the East Wing of the castle. The sunlight glinted in his auburn hair.

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Bloody weirdo."

....

....

....

The snow had made the Slytherin dungeons even more cold and clammy than usual. Draco gratefully peeled himself out of the previous day's clothing and hopped into the scalding shower to wash off the chill and the Harry Potter germs.

He slipped into a thick, lush, white robe that his mother had given him for Christmas. Initially, he thought it made him look like a ponce, but she insisted it made him look sophisticated. He quickly grew attached to the thing and preferred lounging around in his robe to his pajamas, if only to look important.

He wished he could sip a glass of vintage scotch, like his father used to do in the evenings. Lucius Malfoy had always looked so smart and relaxed in the study with his expensive glass of liquor and ice balanced regally in his elf-manicured hand.

Pansy had once pulled Draco aside in at the beginning of first-year to "chat." She had taken one of his hands into her own and drew small circles over his fingernails with the pad of her thumb. Draco's young heart had raced at the intimate touch and he was certain that he looked very important.

Pansy had carefully examined his nails then leaned closely and whispered, "Very shiny nails, Draco."

He had beamed proudly and admired how they glinted, reflecting the candlelight of the Great Hall. His nails were so much nicer than grubby Goyle's and boogery Crabbe's.

"Word of advice," she had purred. "Only women and homos get elf-manicures. You had better buff out that shine if you don't want the Slytherins to feed you to the snakes."

Ashamed and annoyed, Draco had immediately taken her advice, but hated it. He had avoided elf-manicures ever since, except over the summer holidays when he and his mother would have Pamper Days in the Manor. On Pamper Days the elves would dress in fancy, white tea towels and decorate his mother's private bath with hundreds of flickering candles and hangers with thick, white robes. Fruit and tea was plentiful and he and his mother would enjoy foot scrubs, massages and manicures to the crooning of Celestina Warbeck. Draco told himself that he only did Pamper Days to humour his mother, but he secretly enjoyed and looked forward to the pampering and the special time it provided with her.

This past summer there had been no Pamper Days.

Draco still had his robe, though, and he could still pretend. It was almost like having his mother with him. And by "almost" he meant not at all similar in any way except for the robe.

He shuddered. If he didn't finish his task soon, there would be no more Pamper Days ever again because his mother would be dead. His mother would be dead. Draco swallowed back the surge of emotion that he felt rising in his chest and left the bathroom, balling up fistfuls of the robe's pockets as he struggled to keep a cool demeanor.

Draco strolled back into his dorm and was surprised to find Crabbe sitting on his bed. Crabbe was fiddling with Draco's stained glass odds-and-ends box, flicking at the tarnished chain that held the lid to the base. Draco stared at him for a moment, thinking that the delicate box looked out of place in those gargantuan hands. He cleared his throat to make his presence known, but Crabbe refused to meet his gaze.

Draco really wanted to snap at Crabbe for his wavering loyalty. He had already made amends with Pansy, and she was the only one who had gotten hurt in all of this. Crabbe had no business being angry with Draco anymore. Right?

"May I help you?" Draco asked, folding his arms. "I was under the distinct impression that you no longer wanted anything to do with me."

Crabbe jerked his head up at that and frowned. "Sit down," he barked.

Crabbe's authoritative tone caught Draco off-guard and, without hesitation, he found himself sinking down to the foot of the bed. Crabbe turned to look at him. His face was twisted up with a flurry of emotions, none of which seemed to fully take form, though anger and confusion were certainly at the surface.

"Why'd you do it, Draco?"

Draco swallowed hard. He had anticipated a confrontation with, perhaps, Millicent or Blaise, but never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he would be justifying his actions to Vincent Crabbe. Crabbe, who had never questioned Draco's moves or motives and had always been Draco's most loyal friend.

But Draco had acted horribly and, he supposed, Crabbe was owed an explanation. He swallowed and focused on scraping his cuticles with his thumbnail.

"Um. About that." Draco suddenly realized that he had no acceptable excuse. Should he be honest with Crabbe about the Charm or stick with his original version of the story where he didn't know what had happened?

"I thought about it," Crabbe interrupted. "And that wasn't you in the Common Room. I thought maybe someone had Polyjuiced into you, but you've been acting guilty so now I know it really was you. But still. It wasn't like you. Or maybe it was. I don't know. Maybe I don't know you, after all."

"Crabbe-I." He stopped and started again. "You do know me, but it wasn't me, it—"

"So it _was_ Polyjuice?" Crabbe's face was flooded with such relief that Draco was tempted to just go with the story. In fact, it would have been nice if he had thought of it himself from the beginning. Draco looked at Crabbe's big, hopeful face. His mouth was gaping open and Draco glimpsed the hole from Crabbe's snaggle-tooth.

No.

Crabbe deserved the truth. Ugh.

"No. Um." Draco stalled, biting at a pesky hangnail. He quickly pulled his hand back away from his face. "No. I was under a Sleeping Charm at the time and I didn't know what I was doing. I blacked out while it was happening and I can't even remember it. All I remember is Pansy slapping me, then you throwing me on the floor."

Crabbe wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "Oh."

Draco nodded and tapped his fingertips together.

Crabbe was trying to think and it was frustrating him. The left side of Crabbe's mouth always twitched up when he couldn't figure something out. It used to happen a lot, though lately it seemed that Crabbe had stopped trying altogether.

Well, he was doing it now.

"But why?" he finally asked. "It wasn't bedtime."

Draco sighed. "It's a long story. One that involves Madame Pomfrey and Harry Potter, and I really don't want to get into the whole thing."

"So it's Potter's fault, is it?" Ah. _That_ was something Crabbe could understand. And yet . . .

"No. It wasn't Potter's fault. It was still my fault. I was doing something really stupid that I shouldn't have been doing and it got out of control. And I already apologized to Pansy and she's fine with it."

"She's _fine_ with it?" Crabbe stood, suddenly. "You hurt her, Draco! It wasn't right!"

Draco stood, too. "I know! I know, okay? I said I was sorry. What do you want from me?"

"Forget it, Malfoy. This was a waste of time." Crabbe turned and lumbered toward his own bed.

"Wait—Vin." This pleading thing was new to Draco. "Just listen. I'm—"

Crabbe stopped and crossed his arms over his massive chest. It was not a good thing to be on the wrong side of Vincent Crabbe. Draco had never been there before and he really, really did not like it.

God. "I'm having a—" he coughed, "really rough time of things right now. And. I just fucked up, okay? And I really. . ." Draco lowered his voice until it barely registered. "I need you right now, okay?"

Crabbe nodded. "Okay, Draco." He gave him a half-grin and walked back to his bed. And that was it.

Draco let out a sigh of relief and reluctantly changed out of his robe and into his lounge clothes. He grimaced when he remembered that the cursed necklace was inside the odds-and-ends box that Crabbe had been playing with. Draco needed to be more careful. Sure, the necklace case was spelled close, but . . .

Draco took a deep breath, a mix of horror and relief, and shoved the necklace deep into the bottom of his school bag.

....

....

....

Harry was curled up in bed. His fever had returned and his muscle aches were worse than ever. He imagined how nice it would feel if someone could dab a cool, wet cloth on his face.

_Dab, dab, dab, dab, 1-2 swipe, 1-2 swipe._

Harry kept getting these odd flashes of memories from his time in the Shrieking Shack. But this _beat_ , in particular, would not leave him, as though it held some sort of significance. When he closed his eyes he could almost feel the wetness of a cloth cooling his face and his cheeks and it just seemed so real. But it couldn't be real. If it were real then that would mean that Draco Malfoy had dabbed at his face with a cool, wet cloth and there was no way that that could have happened.

" _I've been up half the night trying to help you break your fever."_

No. No way. No _way_. No.

But Malfoy _had_ rubbed his shoulders, right? Harry remembered that. He was pretty certain that that'd happened. Weird. How completely weird.

Why would Malfoy do that? That had nothing to do with helping Harry break his fever or regain his health. Massaging served only one purpose for flu-addled bodies, and that was to make the sick person feel more comfortable. Draco Malfoy would not care about Harry Potter's comfort.

Right?

Harry shifted in bed again, trying to get comfortable.

"You alright there?" Seamus asked from across the room.

"Just bored," Harry said.

"Enjoy it, mate. Midterms are coming up, and then the holidays. You won't get another chance to relax."

"Forced relaxation is not the same as taking a break."

Seamus laughed. "So read a book or something, Harry."

Hmm. "Seamus, you take Muggle Studies, right?"

"Yes."

"Any chance you have a copy of _The Christmas Carol_ on you?"

Harry could hear Seamus laugh. "I actually _do_ , but it isn't because I'm reading it for Muggle Studies. The only person that chose _that_ book is that wanker, Malfoy . . . hey! It was Malfoy that you were stuck with last night, wasn't it?"

Harry had tried to keep Malfoy's identity secret, as per Dobby's instructions, though he was pretty sure that everyone would figure it out, anyway. "Um."

"It _was_ , wasn't it?" Seamus galloped gleefully over to Harry's bed and popped his grinning face through the drawn curtains of the four-poster. "How else would you have known that it was an option for the book report?"

"Er . . ."

Seamus' grin widened and his eyes narrowed in malicious mirth. "Oy, Harry! No wonder you're sick. Anybody'd be sick spending the night with that tit. Ha! Tell me about it, Harry! Oh Merlin! I can't believe you spent the night with _Malfoy!_ "

Harry did not like the way that sentence sounded, nor did he like the way that he began to bristle at Seamus' insults. "I don't really want to talk about it."

Seamus let out a wicked laugh. "Ha! Of course not, you poor dear. Oy, Merlin! Malfoy! I'll go get you that book."

....

....

....

Draco adjusted his schoolbag on his shoulder as he walked through the North Corridor, following Terry Boot's instructions to the so-called "Hogwarts Chapel."

He reached the second door on the right. It was a thick, mahogany door, unfinished with sharp, wood grains and an ornately decorated brass doorknob. The door had a doorknocker in the middle, but Draco could not see the purpose of a doorknocker on anything but a main entrance.

Draco peered closely at the doorknocker and half expected it to twist into the face of Jacob Marley. He rolled his eyes at himself and read the inscription under the bronze handle.

" _Firmitas mea caelo oritu."_

"My strength comes from Heaven."

Hmm. The chapel, was it? Draco twisted the doorknob and stepped confidently into the room.

Immediately, he was taken aback.

Soaring ceilings with arched wooden beams framed the narrow room. Diamond-shaped crystal windows refracted light into rainbows of cool colors. The prisms in the windows shifted slowly, sending the shimmering blue rainbows dancing across gleaming obsidian pews. There were four pews in the room and they faced each other in a diamond formation. In the center was Terry Boot, sitting cross-legged on a deep, purple carpeted circle, surrounded by books, crumpled paper pieces and an assortment of quills. He appeared to be tracing the lines of his palm with a quill.

The room was stunning, but Boot's presence in the middle somewhat spoiled the effect. How had Draco never seen this room before?

"What is this?" Draco asked, gesturing to the expanse of the room. Boot looked up from his palm and grinned.

"Ah, Malfoy. I wasn't sure if you'd find the place."

Malfoy frowned. Merlin, Boot was an arse. "Of course I'd find it. I _can_ follow directions, Boot."

"Call me Terry."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Fine. Terry."

"I didn't doubt your ability to follow directions, Draco."

"Call me Malfoy."

Terry laughed, unaffected. "I created this room. That's why I wasn't sure if you could find it. It has to show itself to you. I designed it that way."

Draco gasped, despite himself. "You created this room?" He tried to hide the awe in his voice, but it was difficult. "You _made_ a room at Hogwarts?"

Terry grinned, proudly. "It's amazing what you can learn in a book."

Draco dropped his bag onto one of the obsidian benches, then sank down beside it.

Terry, obviously relishing an opportunity to brag about his wit, continued. "I call it The Chapel. It is a complete reflection of whatever will calm its occupants. It's slightly different for everyone, but the base is the same. For instance, right now, I see green. Green and gold. The benches are green, the light is solid gold and I detect silver mist in the air. But it always resembles, well, a chapel."

Draco looked around. It was rather amazing. "That's not what I see. Except the chapel parts."

Terry nodded, smugly. "What do you see, Draco?"

"Malfoy," he repeated, but the calming effect of the room had extinguished his earlier annoyance. He laid back on the surprisingly comfortable bench and crossed his legs. "Blue rainbows. Just cool colors. Black benches. Um, purple carpet."

"Mist?"

Draco shook his head.

"You need to relax," Terry said with certainty. "It will come."

"What makes you think being in this room with you and Arithmancy homework will spawn relaxation?"

Boot chuckled. "It won't, necessarily. But this might." He dug into his bag and fished out what looked like a silver cigarette case.

"Muggle sticks?" Draco scoffed. "Really, Boot?"

"Terry," he corrected. "And it's not Muggle sticks, Draco. Which, by the way, are called cigarettes. It's weed." Boot snapped open the case and pulled out a thin, tightly wrapped white piece of . . . parchment?

Draco did not like not knowing things. But he didn't know what this was. What would Terry Boot want with weeds? "I thought we were here studying Arithmancy, Boot. My Herbology grades are fine."

Boot laughed and it echoed in the expanse around them. "Yes, but _sometimes_ , when the concepts of Arithmancy don't click, this," he held up one of the white sticks, "helps."

Draco began to grow annoyed again, despite the comfort of the room. "Boot, I don't have time for your antics. I came here to review my work. If you're going to keep talking in riddles, then I'm leaving."

"It's a mild drug that comes from a plant," Terry offered. A drug. Potter had used that word before. He compared it to hard potions. Oh, fuck. What was Boot doing? "It helps you to think, well, differently."

Draco sat up, feeling defensive. Boot had tricked him. "You already think _differently,_ Boot. You're completely barking. Even more so if you think I'm going to eat that garbage."

"Oh, please, Malfoy. Get off your high horse." Boot dug around in his bag and procured a blue, square saucer with little bites taken out of the corners. He set the stick on the saucer and folded his arms. "You're no stranger to mood-altering magic."

Draco narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

"Now, I don't know everything, but—"

Draco interrupted him with a rude laugh.

"But I _know_ that Mediterranean Virus thing was complete bollocks because I invented the damn disease!"

Draco blinked. "What?"

Boot shook his head as though frustrated. "I'm not sure where you got the idea to use that as your backup story, but I made up 'The Mediterranean Virus' last year the first time I tried to, well, you know."

Draco was going to _strangle_ Potter. "Well, Madame Pomfrey said that's what I have." He raised his eyebrows, challenging Boot to prove him wrong.

Boot snickered. "Then if she did, she is an idiot. I made it up, Malfoy. The whole thing. Everyone bought it because people tend to look the other way when they don't want to see what's happening right in front of their eyes. I imagine much is the same with your friends. People would rather believe that you have some illness that is out of your hands than believe you're falling apart because of an inability to handle your emotions."

No, strike that last thought. Draco was going to kill Terry Boot. And enjoy it.

"Where the _hell_ do you get off, Boot? How dare you suggest that I'm anything like you!" Draco stood, snatched up his bag and stomped off toward the door. "You're pathetic, you know? Completely pathetic."

Draco paused and turned threateningly toward Boot. Draco thought he would appear more intimidating if he towered over the tosser, so he went back and stood directly in front of him. "And if you dare breathe a word of this conversation to _anyone_ , I'll make you wish you'd killed yourself off properly the first time."

Boot laughed, unaffected. "I already wish that, Malfoy."

Draco was fuming, but Boot's words cut through. "Wait. What?"

"I said that I already wish that I'd killed myself off properly the first time."

Draco paused. "Why would you say that? I thought St. Mungo's made you all better." Draco dropped his bag at his side.

Boot smiled, wryly. "Yeah. That's what everyone thinks. But forcing yourself to think about things from multiple perspectives only helps you to see things differently. It doesn't change how you really feel. And if it does, you're just lying to yourself."

Draco had heard these words before. No, he had _said_ these words before. He stepped back from Boot, then slunk down onto the carpet in front of him. "So why not lie to yourself?"

Boot raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I do. Every day."

"Well, what's the point?" Draco asked.

Terry's mouth suddenly turned down at the corners and he looked sad. "I don't know," he murmured.

Draco's instinct to gloat over the fact that the Ravenclaw _didn't_ have all the answers was dampened by the miserable look on Boot's face. So, Boot's smiley song and dance was all for show, was it? The thought was strangely unsettling, as though it confirmed Draco's suspicion that happiness really _was_ a farce. Either that, or it was only reserved for certain people.

"Well," Draco began. "Maybe some people just aren't meant to be happy."

Terry smiled at him. "Yeah. I tell myself that, too. But it just takes me back to the question 'What's the point?'"

Draco shrugged and watched curiously as Terry used his wand to set the parchment stick on fire.

"You have to cook it?" Draco asked curiously, as a strong, skunky smell floated toward him. Boot sucked on the stick, grinning with his eyes closed as if he were trying not to laugh. He held one finger up to Draco while holding his breath, now filled with the smoke from the parchment stick. After a few seconds, he let his breath out slowly. The acrid smell assaulted Draco's nose.

Terry Boot laughed out a hacking cough. "You don't _cook_ it, Malfoy. You smoke it."

Draco mockingly widened his eyes and spoke slowly, as though Boot were an idiot. "So it's like a Muggle stick, then."

"I guess so." Terry Boot held up the stick to Draco, who felt a sudden rush of anxiety.

"Wait. I'm not sucking that in without knowing what the hell it is." Draco finally admitted his ignorance as curiosity got the best of him.

Boot took the stick back, took another drag, held it, and then set the stick down on the saucer. It rested perfectly in one of the little bites as it smoked out a curling stream of white. He exhaled smoothly this time and smirked at Draco.

"It is a plant that you smoke. It relaxes you, but also alters your perception. You see things differently. You think, well, faster. More clearly. Less clearly but more clearly."

That kind of made sense to Draco. "Give it here."

"You sure? It's intense, Draco."

Draco scowled. "I can handle it, Boot." Draco really wasn't sure if he _could_ handle it, and he also wasn't sure if this drug would affect his Acute Potion Poisoning, but figured, it was just _air_ , what could it really hurt?

And Boot was a tosser. It probably wasn't strong at all.

Draco fumbled with the stick and stuck it in his mouth. A split second of doubt clouded his mind before Terry Boot grinned and leaned over, lighting the stick with his wand.

Draco inhaled.

....

....

....

"Oh my God. What the _fuck_ did you give me, Boot?" Draco pressed one hand over his fluttering heart as he paced in circles around the diameter of the benches. "I'm having a reaction to it. I'm having a heart attack, I think." Draco was working himself into a panicked frenzy and the drug seemed to feed off of his fear, making it worse.

Boot was leaning back against one of the benches, the picture of calm. He had poisoned Draco. He must have poisoned him because _he_ looked _fine_. "You're okay, Draco. Relax."

"No. I'm not. I can't. Make it stop, Boot!" Draco demanded, placing two fingers on the pulse point in his neck, just waiting for his heart to explode out of his chest. He tried to count the heartbeats, but they seemed faster in his head than they felt in his chest, which didn't make any sense. "I don't like it, I don't like it. Make it stop!"

Boot stood and walked over to Draco. He took Draco's two hands in his own and Draco allowed him. The movement served to anchor him. Boot's hands were cool and his skin was very smooth. Terry spoke in a soothing voice. "Draco, look at me."

He did, resisting the urge to squirm and run.

"You are fine. You're okay."

"I'm not okay! I hate this! I'm dying, I think!"

"Listen to me. You aren't dying. It is a safe drug and it can't hurt you. It only seems that way because you're thinking about it that way. It's all in your head. The nervousness, the 'racing heart,' it's all in your head. You have to control it. Choose to be relaxed instead of scared."

"I don't think I can," Draco panicked.

"You can. A lot of people feel that way at first, but you just have to get used to it. Accept it. It can really be quite beautiful and relaxing."

"I just want it to end! Isn't there a spell or something? It has to stop. When will it stop?" The words seemed to race out of Draco's mouth before he'd chosen to say them, but when he thought about it, they were what he had meant to say.

Boot smiled, his eyes heavy. "There are no spells to end it, Draco. It will last about four hours."

"Four _hours_?" That was the worst thing Boot could have said. Draco wished he hadn't asked at all. Boot might as well have said four years. Every second was excruciating madness made up of several minutes' worth of thoughts. How was he going to survive four hours of this?

Boot led Draco back to the carpet, which now danced wildly with blue rainbows. Every spot of light seemed to be made up of thousands of tiny dots of color, each with individual identities, all parts of the whole of each color speck. "Merlin."

Draco sat down, thinking that if he could just focus on the purples, the indigos and the blacks, the rest of it wouldn't be so bad.

The colors were incredible. He had never noticed before. Why had he never noticed how incredible colors were? Draco stared in child-like wonder at the rainbows above him, still holding Boot's hands.

"Think about how calm you are right now. About how much you're loving the experience."

"Well, I would be lying to myself if I did that."

Boot laughed. "Well, in this case, you have to lie to yourself."

"You have to lie to yourself, anyway. It's a means to survival." Draco suddenly wondered if he sounded completely stupid talking. He felt like he sounded really, really stupid and he didn't want to talk anymore. "Sorry," he apologized. "I'm not making sense."

"You _are_ making sense. Why, do you feel stupid?"

"Do I _sound_ stupid?" Draco was suddenly very self-conscious and wished he were alone with his thoughts in this beautiful room.

"No. You just think you do."

"What the fuck did you give me, Boot?" Draco mused aloud and started laughing. And once he started, he couldn't stop. His laugh sounded drunk-like and embarrassing and he kept snorting, but he couldn't stop. He wiped at the tears of laughter that formed at his eyes. "What the fuck is going on?" He snorted again, then covered his face, trying to drown out his snorting laughter with warm, rough hands.

"You ready for Arithmancy?" Boot asked, pulling out a sheet of parchment.

Draco laughed harder. "You're fucking joking, right?" Draco stroked the soft carpet under him lightly with the palms of his hands. "I can't study like this! I—my thoughts are . . . too fast. I can only focus on . . . tangents."

_Shut up, Draco. You sound like a fucking moron._

"Well, that's the point. Tangents. And Arithmancy. Spell tangents. That's the point, Draco."

"Oh."

"Spells have a certain nature to them. Each spell has it's own, personality, let's say. But if the intention of the spell is altered, then the spell veers off into a tangent. And the effect, therefore, is slightly altered but the personality is still the same. Same spell, different intention, different effect."

It suddenly clicked. "Wait-like incomplete charms?"

"Yes!" Boot laughed, triumphantly. "Exactly like that."

Draco had suddenly forgotten the revelation. "Shit. Wait. What did I just say?" It was important and he needed to hold onto it.

"Incomplete charms, you said. Write it down before you forget."

Draco fumbled for a quill and wondered if he could actually write words or form a written sentence.

Terry Boot dictated, which was helpful. "Write that 'spell tangents are like incomplete charms.'"

Right. Draco wrote these words on the parchment and marveled at how his muscle memory formed the words correctly when his mind couldn't be arsed to spell anything. The words momentarily appeared to float off the page and Draco gave a self-indulgent giggle.

Boot flicked his wand and music began to play softly. It seemed to keep rhythm with the lights and the colors and Draco was momentarily enraptured.

"Now," Boot began and Draco wished he'd shut up for a minute. "The Transitive Property of the Imperius Curse."


	10. Chapter 10

Terry Boot had finally shut up about Arithmancy and Draco had taken Boot's advice to relax. Every few minutes, or maybe it was seconds, he would remember that he was what Boot had called "high," and he would start to panic about how he had forgotten that he was high altogether. Then he would try and forget that he was high again, but it was like someone saying not to think about a pink elephant. Inevitably, one thinks about a pink elephant.

The Transitive Property of the Imperius Curse was an interesting thing, indeed. If one could cast the spell on a single insignificant person, then that person could cast the spell on others and all would be under the first person's control.

It sounded like something The Dark Lord would do.

But, maybe Draco could do it, too.

The overwhelming power of the thought was a bit too much to take on at the moment, so Draco scribbled the word "task" onto the palm of his hand (he couldn't be arsed to retrieve his parchment) then basked in the symphony of sights and sounds above him.

"Shit, Draco." Boot sat up, suddenly, and began to stuff crumpled parchment balls into his bag. "We need to go if we're going to make curfew."

Draco grinned lazily. He didn't really care. "Whatever."

Boot frowned. "Well, maybe _you_ don't care if anyone finds you stalking about after hours, but I happen to be on probation, you know?"

Draco sighed and sat up, wishing he could just sleep in the Chapel, but knowing Boot was right. He couldn't get caught walking about after hours, either.

"Wait." Boot smiled and stopped Draco from standing. "Another hit before you go? It'll help you sleep."

Draco doubted he would have any problems sleeping that night. He was unsure if more was a good idea. Could he handle more? Evidently, his mouth thought he could because he heard himself agreeing before he was able to reach an informed decision.

And before he could take back what he said, Boot was handing him the lit cigarette-thing and Draco was inhaling.

Minutes later, Boot and Draco were exiting the Chapel in two different directions. Apparently, Boot knew some shortcut to Ravenclaw Tower through the back staircase of the North Wing.

Draco started back in the direction he had come from when suddenly he was reeling wildly from his high. Shit.

He giggled, because walking seemed like flying and he felt like he had pissed himself, but when he checked, everything felt dry.

And then he realized that he had no idea where he was and no idea how to get back. And he was _high_. Oh, God. He was so, so high.

He tried to turn around and go back to where the Chapel was, but there was no door when he got there. Or maybe he was in the wrong corridor completely.

Draco stumbled forward, forgetting how to walk. He used the stone walls to brace himself as he thought "Forward. Just keep going forward."

This idea took him to a dead end in a corridor, at which point he promptly changed his mantra and thought, "Backward. Just keep going backward."

As he forged on, mesmerized by the torchlight and the gently waving walls, he began to think about Chocolate Frogs and how they were one of the greatest things ever made.

Merlin, he wanted a Chocolate Frog.

Then he remembered he was lost. Why didn't Boot tell him he was going to get lost?

Draco then realized that he was thirsty. His mouth. Was so dry. Ack.

Merlin, he wanted Chocolate Frogs.

But how was he going to get back to the dungeons?

Ooh, if he could find his way to the kitchens, maybe Dobby would give him Chocolate Frogs.

Or chicken. Real food. Something salty and warm.

And water. God! Why couldn't he swallow? He had a sandpaper mouth. "Kah!" he spat.

Lost, lost! What if Boot was wrong and Draco _did_ have a heart attack? He'd be all alone in this corridor and no one would find him. This time he was certain that his heart really _was_ beating too fast.

He reached up and checked. No. It was beating normally, but why—? "Uf!"

Draco collided with something warm. A person. A person to help! His eyes fell upon a shiny silver badge with the letter P. Underneath that it said "Granger."

Mud-bloody hell.

Granger was going to know he was high! She was going to report him and he'd be expelled. Then he would never finish his task! He had to hide it from her. But it was so obvious. How could anyone _not_ be able to tell?

"Malfoy! What are you doing here? You're not on duty tonight!" Granger stepped back and put her hands on her hips.

"Um," Draco began, trying to hold his eyes open, but they kept squinting up. He blinked stupidly. "I don't . . . know."

Fuck. He couldn't handle this. Draco's heart began to race and he instinctively placed a hand over it to try and quell its incessant beating.

Granger frowned. Her fluffy, brown hair was illuminated by torchlight, resembling a burning bush with an angry face. "You don't _know_? What kind of an answer is that?"

Wait. Wait. What _had_ he been doing down here? Oh yeah. "Studying!" Draco was so proud that he came up with a good answer that his face split into an unwelcome grin. He pressed his lips together and tried to bite his cheeks but his stupid smile wouldn't go away. Granger could tell. She _had_ to be able to tell. And she was a Muggle, too. She'd know all about Muggle drugs. Damn it.

"With whom?" She narrowed her eyes at his odd behavior.

"Terry Boot!" Draco exclaimed, then giggled. Then snorted. He placed a hand over his mouth to stifle it.

Oh, it was over. It was all over.

"Terry Boot . . ." her voice trailed off and then her suspicious face shifted to outrage. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

Draco, trying not to speak, pressed his lips together and shook his head, fervently, "no." He could feel his eyes, shrunken into little, smiling slits of betrayal.

Granger frowned, then stepped towards him and inhaled deeply. Her outrage changed to complete shock and her mouth dropped open. "Merlin's sakes, Malfoy! You're completely stoned!"

"I'm not!" he protested. He wasn't sure what "stoned," meant, but she had probably hit the nail on the head.

"I can't believe it!" she gasped. She held her lit wand up to his eyes and gasped again. "You are! You're completely stoned! You reek of it. I can't believe I didn't smell it on you before."

Draco couldn't think of anything sensible to say, nor did he have the energy or words to defend himself, so he remained quiet, thinking it was the least incriminating choice.

His knees felt like they were bouncing up and down and he wondered whether or not he was standing still. He was telling himself to stand still, but it felt like someone had thrown him the Jelly-Legs Jinx. Could Granger tell? Was he making a complete fool out of himself? Probably.

"I should tell Professor McGonagall about this!"

Draco's heart raced faster and he shook his head again. "Please, don't."

She crossed her arms and gave him a nasty look. "And why shouldn't I? What have you ever done for me?"

Draco said nothing. Less incriminating that way.

"Well?"

"But—I didn't know what it was!" he protested, weakly. It was kind of a lie, but it was all he had to go by. Screw Terry Boot. Terry Boot abandoned him in the labyrinth of Hogwarts. It was every man for himself. "It's all Boot's fault!"

Granger didn't seem to like that excuse. "Shut it, Malfoy." She stepped closer to Draco and wrinkled her nose. "Fine. I'll keep my mouth shut. But you need to get out of here now and go straight to bed. This conversation never happened."

She stepped back and crossed her arms, waiting expectantly.

"Thank you, Granger. You're too kind," he tried to drawl, but couldn't.

"You owe me, Malfoy."

"I know."

They stared at each other, Granger scowling and Draco failing to fight the goofy grin off of his face.

"Well?" she asked impatiently and threw her arms at her sides.

Shit. Was he supposed to do something? What had they just been talking about? "What?" he asked.

She rolled her eyes. "What are you waiting for, an invitation? Go to bed, you imbecile!"

Oh right. Bed. "Er—about that, Granger. Uh. See, I don't really know where I am and, well, as a Prefect, I think it's your duty to escort me back to my room."

"Um, hello, Malfoy," she thunked him twice on the head with her wand. 'If I do that, then everyone will see me and this conversation _will_ have happened."

He shook his head and admired the light patterns. Then he frowned. "What are you talking about, Granger?"

She huffed. "You're impossible to speak with like this. Or at all, really."

Draco stared at her.

"Go to bed!" she hissed.

"Granger! I don't know where I am! I need. Um. Help." Draco waved his hands around dramatically to emphasize his point.

"Are you kidding me?" She snorted, disgusted. "You are completely pathetic, Malfoy."

"Granger. Please?"

She twisted her face up as though she were debating her choices. Then she let out all her breath in an exasperated huff. "Fine." She turned and began stomping away. "Come on, then."

Draco tripped after her, struggling to keep up, but the floor was shifting away from his feet, and his feet kept lifting up too high when he took a step and it all felt completely out of control. He briefly wondered if he might vomit, but the feeling quickly passed.

Stupid Terry Boot. Whoever thought he was fit for Ravenclaw was fit for an institution. "Granger, do you think hats can be institutionalized?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know. What did I just say?"

Her mouth twitched up in a grin. "You asked me if hats could be institutionalized."

Oh yeah. "Right! The Sorting Hat! It's completely mental!"

"Why do you say that?" She seemed to have slowed down her pace because Draco was no longer struggling to keep up.

"Terry Boot," he proclaimed, as though this explained it all.

"What about him?" she asked with a hint of attitude.

"Ravenclaw! Really? The tosser is a complete idiot!"

"Terry Boot is brilliant, Malfoy," she shot back, defensively.

"I know _that_ , Granger. But he's still a complete idiot! Ravenclaw is supposed to be for those with ready minds! And wit! Boot might be a book-worm, but intelligence is more than just getting straight O's."

"Hmmm," she mused, thoughtfully. "And where might you put him if you were the Sorting Hat?"

"First of all, Granger, I'd stick your know-it-all arse in Ravenclaw. Honestly, Gryffindor? Although, you don't know how to keep your mouth shut."

Neither did he, apparently.

"But Boot? He's in a class all his own. Some class with drugs and liquor and Quick Quotes Quills. He'd be a . . . Qui . . quor . . . twat."

Granger fought off a smile but failed. "What?"

Draco snorted as she led him up a staircase. "Boot would be in a fifth house. Quiquortwats. It's everything that represents him. Quick Quotes Quills, liquor and twats! It's perfect."

"That's enough, Malfoy," she said, though she was grinning. "Terry Boot's a nice person."

"Terry Boot got me all . . . _high_ , Granger! I just want it to go away but there's not even an antidote. Four hours, he said. What time is it?"

"A little after ten."

Draco threw back his head and let out an exasperated sigh. "It feels like three in the fucking morning."

She smirked.

"Don't ever do drugs, Granger."

She turned back to him. "I won't. But I have to say, you're much more pleasant like this."

"Pfft!" he waved his hand around, dismissively. "I'm always pleasant. Do you have any Chocolate Frogs on you, Granger?" Draco still wanted Chocolate Frogs. He wondered if Granger would have enough goodness in her Gryffindor heart to take him to the kitchens before she took him to his dorm. "God, I want a Chocolate Frog. Go ask your pal, Potter. I bet he'll have a Chocolate Frog."

She wrinkled up her face. "Why would Harry ever give _you_ a Chocolate Frog?"

"Because I want one?" Draco shrugged. "Anyway. Potter. How's he feeling?"

At this Granger stopped full-force and Draco stumbled into her back. "What?" she asked, incredulously.

"Potter. He's sick. Is he feeling better?" Why was she acting like this? Did Draco say something wrong?

Wait.

Yes. Yes, he did.

"Not that I _care_ or anything," he prattled on, trying to undo the damage.

"How did you know he was sick?"

"Well, he had a fever and—" Nope. Wrong again, Malfoy.

"Malfoy." Granger had an irritating little smile on her face. "Were _you_ the one that Harry brought food to yesterday?"

Yes. _No!_ "Uh . . y-y-no. Wait. Repeat the question."

"It was! It was _you!_ "

"No! Granger—I don't. Repeat the bloody question!"

She turned away from him and laughed. It was a tinkling sound that seemed to resonate against the stone, creating harmony. No, not harmony. Granger's laugh was stupid and Draco needed to stop talking.

And he was going to _kill_ Terry Boot.

"To answer your question, Malfoy, Harry is fine. His fever was back for a while but it broke again around supper time."

"I couldn't care less," he grumbled.

"Still has a rather nasty cough, though."

"I said I don't care, Granger."

"You're right. Why am I telling _you_ this?" She held a door open for him and they emerged somewhere near the back entrance to Hogwarts. "I never thought I'd say this, but, Malfoy, maybe you should get stoned more often."

"Ack! Granger! You've got a rebellious streak in that muddy blood of yours." Draco clung to the door frame, trying to orient himself as Granger glared impatiently.

"And _you_ seem to have a streak of human hidden somewhere in that prejudiced, pure blood of yours. Who'd have imagined?"

"No, Granger. It's the drugs talking. Don't let this rakish smile fool you. I'm thinking terrible thoughts. I just can't get them out."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Malfoy. Do you think you can find your way from here?"

He nodded.

"Good." She crossed her arms and waited. "Well?"

"What?"

"Go!"

....

....

....

As Draco stumbled down to his dormitory, his mind was consumed with thoughts about the Imperius Curse. Could it be that easy? Were there repercussions for the caster?

He particularly liked the fact that it caused no direct harm to the victim. It was much easier for the caster to cover his trail. Draco wanted to test it out, just to see. Maybe Crabbe would let him try. Was that something a good friend would do or was that something a terrible friend would ask a good friend to do?

No. He would not cast Imperius on any of his friends. It had to be someone that didn't matter. A stranger. A stranger with access.

Merlin, he wanted a Chocolate Frog.

Draco pivoted on his heel and began heading toward the kitchens when he glimpsed a lovely lady striding down the corridor, coming out of the kitchen herself. It was . . . what was her name?

He couldn't remember, but he'd seen her before.

Hogsmeade. She worked at that pub in Hogsmeade. She must have been delivering something to the kitchens.

The woman smiled politely at Draco as she passed. He nodded to her and then stopped.

Something told him that an opportunity was about to slip away. He didn't know the significance and had no plan from which to draw, but before he could think it through and stop himself, a whispered " _Imperio_ " came out of his mouth.

The woman slowed. Shit. Shit. He'd done it. Oh, God. He'd done it. He was going to be in so much trouble. The woman turned to look at him with a vacant expression on her face, as if waiting to be told what to do.

Had it worked? Had it really worked? How did he control her? Was it through intention or verbal command? Draco couldn't remember. He couldn't think straight. What had he just done?

Draco thought really hard about Chocolate Frogs to see if she might fetch him some.

The woman—Madame Rosmerta, that was her name! –continued to stare at Draco expectantly.

"Um. Get me Chocolate Frogs," he stammered, feeling stupid.

"I'll get you Chocolate Frogs," she stated, without inflection. She walked back toward the kitchen, as if in a trance.

When she had gone, Draco began to pace nervously in the hallway, snapping his fingers like mad. His adrenaline and racing heart had reached new heights. What was he doing? He was completely out of control! If someone had seen him casting an Unforgivable in the hallway of Hogwarts for a midnight snack. . . forget expulsion, he'd be thrown into Azkaban. Over a fucking Chocolate Frog!

Oh God. Why was he being so careless?

This was all Terry Boot's fault!

He stopped snapping when the smear of ink on his hand caught his attention. _Task_. Right. What had he meant by that?

Imperius Curse. Use the Imperius Curse for the task. But how? Could Madame Rosmerta be the answer to his prayers? Maybe this wasn't such a mistake after all. If he kept her under Imperius, would people be able to tell? Would she remember that Draco cast the curse? No. No she couldn't know that he cast it, she didn't even know who he was.

Though his white-blonde hair always seemed to be a giveaway.

No. This was going to work. Draco had a good feeling about it now. He would keep her under the curse until he could figure out what in Merlin's name he was going to have her do. And _then_ she could cast Imperius on someone else, making it harder to track Draco and _that_ person could carry out Draco's task.

Screw the Room of Requirement. Screw the Vanishing Cabinet that refused to be mended. Rosmerta was going to help him get that cursed necklace to Dumbledore. Somehow.

Madame Rosmerta returned with an overflowing, tin bucket full of Chocolate Frogs. Draco took it and set it on the floor beside him as he began to fumble around in his cloak pockets and then in his bag.

Rosmerta turned to leave.

"Wait!" Draco stopped her and she turned back to face him. He pulled the necklace case out of his school bag and handed it to her. "Be careful with it. It's cursed. Just-keep it safe and wait until you hear from me."

She nodded vacantly and placed the necklace in her own cloak pocket.

"And," he dug in his other pocket and fished out two galleons. He quickly charmed them so that they would communicate with each other. He handed one to her. "Keep this with you at all times and wait for my instructions."

She nodded again.

Feeling better than he had in weeks, Draco thanked Rosmerta for the bucket of Chocolate Frogs. She turned to leave and he awkwardly told her to "take care."

Then, relieved and high and brilliant, Draco floated back to his dorm, collapsed on his bed and gorged himself on sweets.

....

....

....

"Weasley's Weather Watcher! All your forecast needs for the low, low price of five sickles. Only five sickles, ladies and gentlemen!" Seamus' voice projected from his wand across the Great Hall as students lined up in front of the Gryffindor breakfast table to receive their personal forecasts. Each forecast was charmed so that students could not share the information with anyone else and business, for Ron, Dean and Seamus, was booming.

Sort of.

A shadow stretched over their end of the Gryffindor table.

"Mr. Weasley," a familiar voice drawled. The three boys stopped cold and glanced up into the greasy, hook-nosed face of Professor Snape. "What exactly do you think you are doing?"

Snape loomed threateningly over the tented paper sign onto which Ron had scribbled "Weasley's Weather Watcher . . . 5 sickles!" An assortment of poorly-drawn, asterisk-snowflakes blew wildly over the words.

"Er. Forecasting the weather? Um, sir?"

For the last several weeks, Ron, Dean and Seamus had been charging students for weather forecasts. Ever since Ron predicted the snowstorm, students had been lining up for daily predictions. Ron was very careful about how he cast the charm, so that no one else could figure out his technique, and he loved the shining moment of popularity that each morning provided.

Dean was the one who came up with the idea of charging money for the forecasts. The boys had then roped in Hermione, who grudgingly showed them how to cast the spell so that the results could not be shared under the threat of blistering acne.

Eloise Midgen might have shared, but no one could tell for sure.

With the constant blizzards, weather forecasts had become very important to the students at Hogwarts, especially with the approach of a Hogsmeade weekend.

When the boys had started their business, it had been by word-of-mouth. Forecasts took place in the Gryffindor Common Room and between classes. But business had expanded and Weasley's Weather Watcher now serviced all four houses and the house-elves, too!

Or so said their flyers.

Snape peered down at Ron over his hook-nose with a disgusted look on his face. "In your haste to earn a galleon, Mr. Weasley, you seem to have forgotten Hogwarts Ordinance number twenty-two. 'No profitable business will operate on Hogwarts grounds without proper licensure from the Ministry.'"

Seamus grinned smugly at Snape and procured a rolled-up piece of parchment from his school bag. "A license like this one, Professor?" he asked.

Snape, looking like he had bit and swallowed a lemon, snatched the parchment from Seamus and unrolled it.

It paid to have a father in the Ministry and brothers in the business of forgery.

Excellent forgery.

Fred and George had never been so useful.

"Well?" Ron asked, trying to hide his smile.

Snape scowled and buried the license deep into his black robe pockets. "I find it hard to believe that the Ministry of Magic would grant you a license to charge money for a poorly-cast Weather Charm."

"You'd be surprised what people will pay money for, Professor," Dean offered. "Muggles buy bottled water and even flavored air. You really can market anything if the supply meets the demand and the cost it—"

"Thank you, Mr. Thomas," Snape interrupted. Dean closed his mouth and took a step back. "If I need another lesson on Muggle business practices, I'll know who to find. As it is, I don't care." Snape snatched up the Weasley's Weather Watcher sign and ripped it in half.

"Hey!" Ron protested.

"I'll be looking into this supposed Ministry-approved license, gentlemen, and it had better be legitimate or you'll be serving more than detention. I daresay forgery could land a person in Azkaban."

Seamus gulped. Dean widened his eyes and Ron stared despondently at the ripped sign in Snape's fingers.

Snape dropped the torn pieces of the sign onto the table. "Good day." He strode away slowly with his usual sneer set firmly in place.

The three boys dropped into their seats.

"Azkaban!" Dean choked. "I can't go to Azkaban!"

"Oy. Me mam's going to murder me." Seamus rubbed his temples.

Ron held the two pieces of his sign together like a puzzle. "He's full of it. We're not going to Azkaban and we're not going to get in trouble. Fred and George are the best at what they do. We won't get caught and it's not a big deal. Snape's just being a git and trying to scare us."

"Well, it's working," Dean muttered.

"I'm glad I didn't get involved." Harry's voice was muffled behind the _Daily Prophet_. "The last thing I need is more Ministry trouble. Look at this." Harry flattened the newspaper over the table and pointed to an article with a picture of Dumbledore and Harry leaving the Ministry of Magic after the battle at the Department of Mysteries the previous year.

_Boy Who Lived and Hogwarts Headmaster Charged with Destruction of Ministry Property._

_As reconstruction of the ornate lobby of the Ministry of Magic comes to a close, the question has been raised, "Who will foot the bill?"_

_While much speculation has occurred over the events of last May, officials are certain of several things. Harry Potter, 16, entered the Ministry without permission, bypassing Ministry security and participating in multiple illegal wizard duels on the grounds._

_He was accompanied by several others, including Hogwarts Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. It is believed that Dumbledore's presence at the Ministry that evening was for the purpose of returning the escaped students back to Hogwarts, however, multiple damages were directly caused by the aging headmaster, as revealed by high security surveillance spells._

_Though it is believed that Potter and Dumbledore's reactions to You-Know-Who were in self-defense, it remains that Ministry property was destroyed as a result._

_It is no secret that the Ministry of Magic has experienced a slew of financial troubles in recent years. "We simply don't have the backing," Ministry representative, Percival Weatherby told The Prophet. "The money must come from somewhere, and the guilty parties should be held responsible."_

_Melvolin Grudgewick, Gringott's financial analyst, estimated the cost of damage to the Ministry at 1.2 million galleons._

_For a full list of damages and charges, see page 4._

Ron pounded a fist on the table. "That's bollocks, Harry! Utter bollocks!"

"If they want to blame someone, they should blame the bloody Death Eaters!" Neville, who had walked by while they were reading, glared angrily over Ron's shoulder at the article.

"Why bother when they've got a scapegoat with a vault full of galleons?" Seamus seethed, then appeared uncomfortable at having mentioned Harry's money. "Sorry, Harry."

Harry shrugged. He was used to this. It was always something. One piece of bad news after the next. He hardly cared anymore, but it was still a rotten way to start the day.

"I'd rather just pay them off straight away so I don't have to read anymore rubbish like this. I should just owl a check or something." He stared glumly into his oatmeal, which was too watery for his tastes, then sighed in defeat and took a bite.

"No Harry!" Hermione protested. "That's just what they want you to do. It isn't right. You aren't responsible for that. You were saving them—saving us all! If this is the way the Ministry treats the people who help them then, then!" Hermione roughly pushed her empty bowl away from her.

It didn't matter if it was right or wrong. Of course the Ministry would try to use him for his money and tarnish his tenuous reputation on top of it. It didn't matter. He would pay the money if it meant that he would be left alone, although Hermione did have a point. It was the principle of the matter.

"They'll just do it again and again, Harry! You have to stand up for yourself."

"When? When, Hermione? When do I have the time to deal with all of this? For all I know, I'll get down there to plead my case and they'll shove a list of crimes at me, starting with underaged magic, which, to be honest, I'm surprised we haven't all got letters for in the first place."

Ron patted him on the shoulder. "Dad'll figure something out. Don't worry, Harry."

Just then, a flock of owls flew through The Great Hall, all headed toward the Gryffindor Table.

All except one. Through the flurry of beating wings and the hailstorm of feathers and letters, Harry glimpsed Malfoy's unmistakable eagle owl soaring gracefully to the Slytherin table with a curious-looking black envelope.

The Slytherin took the envelope and inspected it closely. He ran his wand over it several times, likely to check for curses, then carefully tore it open.

"Oy! It's a Howler, Harry!" Ron yelled, snapping Harry back to the growing pile of envelopes in front of him. Ron snatched up the angry, red envelope and began running from the table. "I'll take this one for you!" he called over his shoulder, and jogged into the hallway to open the Howler.

Ron was a good friend. Harry would remember to take a Howler for Ron in the future. And judging by what had just happened with Snape, a Howler for Ron was probably not far off.

Despite Ron's distance, the words could still be heard.

_HARRY POTTER! AS THE GRANDDAUGHTER OF THE DESIGNER OF THE MINISTRY LOBBY I FIND IT DISGRACEFUL THAT SOMEONE SUCH AS YOURSELF WOULD REFUSE TO PAY FOR DESTROYED PROPERTY. THE STATUE IN THE LOBBY WAS MORE THAN JUST PROPERTY. TO AN ARTIST, IT WAS AN IRREPLACEABLE MASTERPIECE DESIGNED BY MY GRANDFATHER, THE LATE DEWITT MCCLINTON OF DEVONSHIRE! YOUR ACTIONS ARE SHAMEFUL. HOW ANYONE CAN CALL A DEVIOUS DELINQUENT_ _SUCH AS YOURSELF A HERO, JUST PROVES WHAT A STATE OUR WIZARDING WORLD HAD FALLEN INTO. YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO THE WIZARDING WORLD, HARRY POTTER!_

Harry buried his flaming face into his hands as Seamus burnt each remaining letter in flared succession. He grinned over the growing pile of ashes. "You're taking far too much pleasure in that, Seamus," Harry muttered through his fingers.

When he finally pulled his hands off of his face, he noticed that Draco Malfoy and his black envelope had left the Great Hall.

....

....

....

"— _DEVIOUS DELINQUENT SUCH AS YOURSELF A HERO, JUST PROVES—"_

"Out of my way, Weasel." Draco shoved Ron Weasley against the wall of the hallway. The Weasel had, yet again, received a Howler from his classless, fat mother.

Weasley's retort could hardly be heard over the screaming voice of the Howler. Draco sneered to himself. Weasley was such a gormless git.

The black envelope in Draco's hand seemed to burn with unspoken implications. The note inside was short and lacked detail but spoke worlds. "Go now." The unsigned letter accompanied two small, metal, Muggle coins, that Draco had the good sense not to touch in the Great Hall. They were Portkeys, clearly, but to where?

One was obviously a return Portkey to Hogwarts, but the other . . .

Draco needed to find Snape, but he needed a moment to compose himself first.

He raced down to the dungeons for privacy, not daring to think about the identity of the anonymous sender.

If he didn't think about it, then perhaps it wasn't really happening. Not now. Not on this average Thursday morning. No. It was not.

Draco banged into the Slytherin Common Room, not surprised to find it empty. All of the students were at breakfast, of course, eating oatmeal and drinking tea and getting ready to start an average, boring day.

Draco, on the other hand, had a meeting.

He quickly stepped into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. "Calm down, you're fine, calm down, it's—," he shook the water from his hands and sniffed, "fine." Draco looked up at himself in the mirror. "It's fine," he repeated and reached up to straighten the hairs that covered his scar.

There was no more stalling. He had to go. Now. Like the note said.

Clenching his teeth together, Draco snatched up the black envelope and went to find Snape.

....

....

....

Harry absentmindedly brushed the ashes of his burnt letters into the palm of his hand and then deposited them into his empty oatmeal bowl. It occurred to him that one of the burnt letters could have held a court summons of sorts, but avoidance seemed like as good a coping method as any.

If the Ministry really wanted his money, they'd find him. In the meantime, Professor Dumbledore had wanted to meet with him that evening to discuss something non-Ministry related. Or, at least, Harry hoped.

"Oi, that Malfoy's a git!" Ron grumbled as he returned to the Great Hall. He threw the empty, red envelope down onto the table and Seamus promptly burned the remains.

"Why?" Harry asked, remembering the letter Malfoy had just run off with.

"Just is. Nearly knocked me over in the hallway. Rude little wanker."

Harry hummed noncommittally. He hadn't gotten a good look at Malfoy's face, but something told him, as usual, that Malfoy was up to trouble. _Or maybe just_ _in_ _trouble._ . . Harry wanted to say this to Ron, but was in no mood to be called a suspicious, obsessive stalker that morning, so he said nothing. Harry would investigate on his own, like he had grown accustomed to. Besides that, Ron obviously had more important things to do.

"Well, up you get, Harry." Ron clapped his hands. "Dean, Seamus, let's go. The business of weather never rests. We can make a few sales before Herbology."

Harry said nothing. He thought Weasley's Weather Watcher was possibly the worst idea for a business, but Ron remained dedicated and undeterred. Discouraging Ron would only make Harry feel like a bad friend. Plus, Ron loved having people line up to chat with him and give him galleons. If Harry got involved in the business, he would just steal Ron's thunder . . .

It was nice that Ron had his own thing to do, Harry admitted, even if it was the biggest rip-off in the Wizarding World.

Harry grabbed his bag from the back of his chair and followed the boys out of the Great Hall when he saw the flash of a billowing cloak and long, greasy black hair at the end of the hallway striding briskly toward the dungeons.

"Er-I just realized I left something," said Harry. "Don't wait up for me. I'll meet you at class."

"Sure thing, Harry!" Ron waved. Harry turned from his friends and quickly followed Snape's path.

Harry could hear Seamus' voice fading as he jogged to catch up with Snape.

"Weasley's Weather Watcher! Only five sickles! Five sickles ladies and gents for your personal, daily forecast!"

....

....

....

Harry was back in the hallway with the knights when he heard the hiss of angry, lowered voices. He crept carefully toward them. Draco Malfoy's unmistakable drawl could be heard, whispering furiously to what must have been Professor Snape.

Harry ducked into the nearest alcove and wedged himself into a space behind a suit of armor to listen.

"I don't _know_ why," Malfoy's voice hissed. "Iit just said to go _now_! You have to get me out of Hogwarts so I can Portkey."

"Draco, be reasonable. The letter is unsigned. It could be a _trick_." Snape sounded angry, but his voice held a hint of panic.

"It's _not a trick_ ," Malfoy cried. Harry could hear a fist pound against the stone wall. "And if it _is_ a trick, I can handle it!"

"You're just a child, Draco—"

"And _you're_ just jealous! Jealous that he doesn't want to see _you_."

Snape let out an exasperated sigh. "Draco . . ."

"No! Don't. If you don't take me off the grounds now, then I'll simply let him know that you refused to follow orders."

" _You_ don't _give_ me orders, insolent brat!"

Malfoy laughed without mirth. "No. Of course not, Professor. But unless you want to be on the wrong side of his wand, I suggest you take me out of Hogwarts, immediately."

Snape sighed. "And say what? You're off for a day trip at the spa?"

Malfoy let out a frustrated growl. "Make something up! I don't know . . . say its a family emergency!"

Snape exhaled slowly in resignation. "You're right. Fine. I'll think of something. Though family emergency might not be far from the truth."

"Don't say that," Malfoy muttered, quietly.

A moment of silence passed before Harry heard Snape's voice again.

"Come, Draco. Follow me—quickly. And for Merlin's sake, keep your head down."

Approaching footsteps alerted Harry to their growing proximity. He pressed himself further against the stone, willing his breath to be silent, as Snape and Malfoy took off quickly down the corridor.

....

....

....

Draco stumbled gracelessly onto all fours over what appeared to be a dirt floor. He moved to brush his trousers off and stand when a silky, black hem glided into his field of vision and he found himself unable to move.

"No need to stand, young Malfoy." It was him. It was _him_. "You're quite fine where you are, on your hands and knees."

Draco suddenly wished he had finished his glass of water at breakfast because his dry mouth seemed unwilling to cooperate. "Yes, my Lord," he choked out, training his eyes on the dropped envelope in the crumbling dirt before him.

"I am displeased, young Draco."

Oh no.

No, no, no, no.

"My Lord?" Draco's eyes darted to the side as he tried to take in more of his surroundings. He and the Dark Lord were not alone. There were others in this room, for he could see shadows of shuffling feet to his right. The thought was not altogether comforting.

The room seemed to be an unfinished cellar of sorts. The entire floor was made of dirt, but rays of cool, natural light crept in from somewhere high above. It was not enough light to see much more than shadows.

Draco tried to shut his mind down the way he had the last time he saw the Dark Lord, but found it difficult. It had seemed easier before—when Draco hadn't yet _displeased_ the Dark Lord.

Draco tried to focus on his hands, his fingernails, his knuckles. He watched his golden ring with the Malfoy crest tremble on his left hand and hated the way it shook, catching the light and drawing attention.

"I seem to recall that you were given a task to complete, several _months_ ago, in fact." The Dark Lord's cold voice drawled as he stepped around Draco, surveying him carefully.

Draco tried to bow his head even more. "Yes, my Lord. It's—taking time. I'm working on it."

The Dark Lord let out a hiss of laughter. "Indeed." He waved his wand and a low-lit torch erupted into a magically-contained, blazing fire. Blue flames leapt wildly, casting flickering shadows, and Draco could see bits of the people standing on his right. His eyes were drawn to a delicate blue skirt with white slippers.

He had seen those slippers before.

No, he had purchased those slippers from Pearson Park in Diagon Alley two years earlier.

Oh, God.

His mother was here and the Dark Lord was displeased.

His mother was _here_ and the Dark Lord was _displeased_.

Draco closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

"Step forward, Narcissa."

Draco could see the hem of the delicate fabric of his mother's dressing robe shimmer in the light as she walked forward.

Draco stared pointedly at his ring as he dug his pinky nails deeper into the dirt. He felt a hot trickle of sweat slide down the side of face, but didn't dare raise his hand to wipe it away.

"Someone is here to see you, Draco. You mustn't be rude. Stand to greet your guest."

Draco immediately scrambled to his feet, unable to resist looking into his mother's face for comfort.

His mother's blonde hair was not styled and it hung loosely around her shoulders. She was not wearing any makeup or jewelry. Her eyes held a vacant expression as she looked somewhere beyond Draco.

She was not herself. What had they done to her? Narcissa Malfoy would not want to be seen in her nightgown like this! She hadn't come willingly—of this Draco was certain.

"Mother," Draco barely mouthed, silently praying for her to look at him—to _know_ it was him.

She turned her head slowly and her eyes met his at long last. "Hello, Draco." Her voice was formal and cold. Despite her words of greeting, she did not know him.

Draco recognized that look.

Narcissa Malfoy was under the Imperius Curse.

Draco did not trust himself to speak at all and instead waited for the Dark Lord to continue.

"I believe," the Dark Lord began, "that we had an understanding, young Malfoy."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Were you lying to me when you said that loyalty to me was worth more than your own life and the lives of your parents?"

Draco looked at his mother, fragile and broken.

_Yes, you bastard._ "No, my Lord."

"And yet . . ." his sibilant voice trailed off. "And yet, I don't _believe_ you." The Dark Lord pointed his wand at Draco's mother. " _Finite_ _Incantatem_."

Narcissa Malfoy's eyes seemed to refocus as the curse was lifted. She locked Draco with a horrified gaze, but said nothing. She did not move a muscle.

Nor did Draco move, as he found his body had suddenly frozen in a terrified fear. _Why was he here? Why was she here?_

Draco forcibly removed his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth and swallowed.

"My loyalty is to you, my Lord, above all others."

He had spoken these words before, but saying them now—Now! Now when his mother stood there, waiting on his next move . . . Her life was on the line and—lying or not—Draco had just stated that the monster before him mattered more to him than his _mother!_

If the Dark Lord killed her now, Draco's words of betrayal would be the last she would hear him speak. And they were a disgusting, horrible _lie_.

The Dark Lord knew this. He had to have known this. Of course! He must have known all along or he would never have used Draco's parents' lives as collateral in the first place.

_How had Draco only just made this connection now?_ NOW! When it was _too late?_

A chilling thought suddenly occurred. What if Draco was ordered to kill his mother to prove his loyalty to the Dark Lord? Could he-?

No! No, he could never! He could never kill her because he loved her! And if he did kill her, he would likely kill himself.

But, if he was unable to kill Dumbledore then the Dark Lord would kill Draco anyway and no matter WHAT, Draco's entire family would DIE so maybe he COULD kill his mother to save himself or save his father?

The thought sickened him. Pawns. They were all pawns in the Dark Lord's twisted, manipulative game. The Dark Lord had suspected Draco's wavering loyalty all along but would still use him however he pleased for his own sick perversions.

However, if Draco proved useful, then maybe the Dark Lord would still spare their lives.

Draco needed to pull himself together. He could do this. He needed to stand straight and lie his face off and murder and kill for the beautiful, broken woman standing before him.

But now that Draco had figured out the Dark Lord's game, he would never be so deluded to think that he could gain power through servitude.

An unbidden image of a beach paradise flitted through his mind and made him want to laugh and puke. His stomach contracted in revulsion. He would never stand beside the Dark Lord as the world crumbled beneath his feet, and not because he _could not_ , but because he _would not_.

Oh, how stupid Draco had been to think the life of a Death Eater was _glamorous_. And he had. He was embarrassed to admit it to himself, but he fucking _had_.

Draco had never chosen this, though, not really, because, like Potter had said, he had _never chosen_. And now it was too late. He was too wrapped up in the tangled web of lies and loyalties and utter desperation.

Draco Malfoy had been a fool.

But he could play this game. He had to.

"The task _will_ be completed, my Lord. I can assure you of that." Draco met the Dark Lord's red-eyed stare with newly found fervor. Adrenaline pumped madly through his body and he felt like he was vibrating.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, my Lord. I've been mending a Vanishing Cabinet to allow entrance into Hogwarts through Borgin and Burke's. As it is taking longer than anticipated, I have put into effect another plan to eliminate Dumbledore as soon as possible. Madame Rosmerta of the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade has been placed under the Imperius Curse to act for me outside of the Hogwarts walls. I am prepared to fulfill my task right away, unless, my Lord, you feel that I should wait to act when the entrance is fully functional?"

Draco could not believe how coherent he had just sounded. He clenched his jaw and waited.

The Dark Lord stepped closely to him and lifted him by the chin with one cold, clammy finger. Draco met his gaze. "Do not make me regret placing my trust in you, young Draco. You speak well, but are your intentions pure?"

Then suddenly, Draco's mind was assaulted with images.

_Draco purchased a necklace at Borgin and Burke's and stuffed it into his robe pocket. Draco smirked at Snape as he approached Dumbledore at the staff table._

The Dark Lord probed deeper in Draco's mind and he tried to fight it, desperate to clear his thoughts and remember what Aunt Bellatrix had taught him about Occlumency. Draco had been a natural at Occlumency, but here he was, inches from the Dark Lord's face and caught off-guard with the non-verbal incantation. How could he have not foreseen this?

_Pansy Parkinson vanished a bucket of vomit off the floor while Draco lay in a crumpled heap against the stone wall. Draco's voice rang out into the rafters of St. Cecelia's and he was filled with overwhelming joy. Harry Potter stuffed a bezoar in Draco's mouth and commanded him to chew, eyes shining beneath his glasses. A stream of water from Draco's wand dampened a cloth in the Shrieking Shack and—_

With a gasp, Draco redirected his thoughts, layering mundane scenes over his tunnels of thought, forcing the Dark Lord out of the deepest corners of his mind. Draco's hands were shaking, but he could not afford to acknowledge them. All he could think about was not feeling. Not thinking. Nothing. Clear. Clear. Clear. Class. Books. Quidditch.

The Dark Lord would _not_ enter his mind again.

"Very interesting memories, Draco. Very interesting indeed."

Draco said nothing, only stared blankly ahead.

"Was that—Potter—I saw?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"He's a friend of yours, is he?"

Draco clenched his fists and swallowed. "Not at all, my Lord. I despise Potter to the very core of his being."

"Is that so? Your memories appear to reflect something entirely different, young Draco."

"I. Hate. Him," Draco seethed. "My Lord."

The Dark Lord regarded him closely for a moment, then turned toward his mother. "Step closer, Narcissa."

She did. She now stood right beside Draco.

"Yes, my Lord?" her cool voice inquired.

"Did you know," and at this, the Dark Lord let out an amused chuckle, "that your young son, Draco, has a penchant for the fine arts?"

Narcissa glanced at Draco in question before speaking. "My Lord?"

"It seems that Draco," he smirked, "is a talented member of a Catholic church choir, Narcissa. Were you not aware of this?"

Draco felt his cheeks begin to burn in humiliation. He had never wanted _anyone_ to see that memory, least of all the monster that stood before him.

She frowned in confusion and spoke slowly. "When Draco was a child, Lucius felt that it would help the Malfoy reputation if we attended a community mass. I asked Draco to sing with the church choir, but he rarely attended." Narcissa shook her head. "This was all several years ago."

The Dark Lord let out a low hum. "Is there something you would like to tell mummy, Draco?"

Desperately trying keep a clear head, Draco answered, "I sing in a church choir." He blushed, despite himself and stared at the flattened ear-hole on the Dark Lord's skull. He could feel his mother's imploring eyes, but could not meet them.

"Oh, but there is no reason to be shy, Draco. I think your mother would be very proud of your talent. I know that _you_ certainly are."

Draco said nothing. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

"Sing for your mother, Draco."

_What?_

Draco looked up sharply at the Dark Lord. His red eyes were alight with malicious glee. Was he serious? He wanted Draco to _sing?_

Humiliation at the very notion of singing for the Dark Lord made Draco's stomach and throat tie up into burning, tight knots. A wave of dizziness hit and he tried to breathe through it.

Draco looked at his mother. She was staring at her feet. He looked back to the Dark Lord.

"I said," the Dark Lord purred, "sing for your mother."

Draco tried to make a sound, but it came out as a stuttered squeak.

The Dark Lord fixed his wand on Narcissa and she looked to her son with pleading eyes.

Draco's heart began to race in panic and he could no longer breathe. He could no longer think. He didn't know what songs _were,_ for Christ's sakes, and he certainly couldn't think of one to sing!

"I-I can't," he finally stammered, overwhelmed with terror and hot shame.

The Dark Lord was clearly taking pleasure in Draco's discomfort. He smiled. "You're telling me 'no?''

Draco tried to shake his head but his neck was completely frozen.

The Dark Lord clicked his tongue. "Pity for her."

"N-no, wait—!"

" _Crucio_."

Narcissa crumpled to the floor at Draco's feet and shrieked in agony as the curse ripped through her body. Her blonde hair fell onto her face and into her mouth as she writhed, screaming and screaming and screaming.

Draco dropped to her side and stared in horror. "Mother!" he croaked. "No! Please! Stop! Stop, please!" he begged, knowing it was useless.

The Dark Lord smiled cruelly as he stepped away from Narcissa's body. "Sing for dear Narcissa, Draco."

Draco choked out a sound, but found himself unable to form words or think of a melody. " _PLEASE!"_ he sobbed, desperately, fighting to think of something to sing, something for his mother.

He had to sing. He had to sing.

"Sing," Draco cried out, wildly, his voice gasping through hot tears, " _Sing, Sing!_ "

The Dark Lord looked amused. "But that isn't a song, Draco. Sing a nice song for Mother."

" _Sing! Sing!_ " Draco shouted, pleading and digging his fingers desperately into the dirt, dampened with tears and saliva. " _SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE A POCKET FULL OF RYE!"_ The words had no tune, no melody as his voice broke with a wretched, raw sound and his mother screamed louder.

The Dark Lord barked out a loud, unnatural laugh. Other Death Eaters in the room joined in his mocking laughter.

Narcissa thrashed violently. " _DRACO!"_ The despairing plea ripped through her, tearing her voice with exertion. Draco reached out, helpless, wanting to hold her, wanting to help her, wanting to make it STOP.

He fisted his useless hands in his own hair and tore frantically. Draco needed to do something now, something to _help her!_

So he sang. He sang and sang and sang. Draco couldn't remember what he sang or how he sang and the song was likely no more than a wretched wail as he scrabbled at the dirt, choked by his own ragged, ugly sobs and a chorus of cruel laughter.

Narcissa's screams finally tapered off to gasping whimpers as she was released from the curse. Her body trembled with aftershocks.

Draco kept singing as he dove onto his mother and wrapped his arms around her. He clutched her frail, weakened body to his chest like it was the greatest treasure the world had to offer.

Draco had failed to protect her and he was sickened with guilt.

She had not wanted this for him. His Father had. His Mother had not. She had warned Draco and pleaded with him not to go to the Dark Lord. But Draco—stupid, foolish, ignorant Draco—had been blinded by his own greed and lust for power.

Now Mother was hurt and it was Draco's fault.

The Dark Lord's cold voice broke through the dying remains of Draco's tuneless words. "I think she rather enjoyed the song, wouldn't you agree?"

Draco breathed heavily as anger rose in his chest.

"I know I certainly did," the Dark Lord continued, speaking with vicious delight. "Did you enjoy singing for your mother, Draco? Be honest."

Slowly, Draco dragged his eyes away from his mother and across the room until they landed on the burning, red slits. Draco stared hard into the Dark Lord's eyes, unblinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and deliberate.

"No. I did not. Enjoy it."

This time, Draco could not bring himself to regard the creature before him as his "Lord" and the unspoken epithet hung like static in the air.

The smile slid from the Dark Lord's mouth. "I see." He stepped closer to Draco and stood over him. "Stand up, Draco."

Draco stood. Blood rushed in his ears and his knees wobbled. Hardened rage etched his features as he faced the Dark Lord with his shoulders held back.

Draco would not waver again.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Draco Malfoy." The Dark Lord crept forward and grabbed Draco by the back of his neck. He leaned in and Draco could smell his musty breath and dank skin. "The next time I tell you to do something," he hissed and stroked Draco's cheek with his moist, snake-like finger, " _do it_."

Draco was thrown back with surprising force and he stumbled over his mother's mud-streaked white slippers. He quickly regained his balance and glared at the Dark Lord in defiance.

"Yes, my Lord," he spoke through gritted teeth.

The Dark Lord smiled slightly and nodded. "Good. Continue your work on the Cabinet, Draco. Do not release Rosmerta from the Imperius curse. She could prove useful beyond your present intentions. Your primary concern is completion of the task. Opening an entrance to Hogwarts should come secondary. Do not stall further. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my Lord."

The Dark Lord spoke to his mother. "Dearest Narcissa, thank you for presence today. You served to be most helpful. You are now free to go."

Narcissa lay on the floor, barely conscious, with a thin stream of blood trickling from her head. She did not respond.

"Forgive me, my Lord," Draco shook with anger as he spoke, "but she might make a more timely exit if I were permitted to assist."

The Dark Lord inclined his head and a smirk lingered on his lips. "Indeed, young Draco. Do as you see fit." He then extinguished the torch with a flick of his wand, turned on his heel and strode from the room.

Draco immediately fell to her side and took one of his mother's small, smooth hands into his own.

"Mother?" he whispered, squeezing it softly. "Mother, wake up."

Her eyes fluttered slightly and she groaned in pain. "Draco?"

Narcissa was in no condition to Apparate and Draco was not only unlicensed, but beyond distraught. He did not trust himself to Apparate his mother safely in his current state.

Thoughts were a whirlwind in Draco's head. He needed to get his mother home.

"Mags," he whispered, praying that this would work.

With an immediate crack, Mags, a house elf from Malfoy Manor, appeared beside them. Her eyes widened immediately at the scene before her, but she said nothing. Mags looked up to Draco.

"Mags," he croaked. "P-please. Just-take her—take her home. Take care of her, please." He swallowed. "Clean her up. Don't let her out of your sight and owl me immediately about her condition once you've settled her in."

Mags nodded and held Narcissa's hand. Draco moved back as Mags Apparated his mother back to Malfoy Manor.

Draco felt around blindly in the dirt for the black envelope that he had dropped earlier. He snatched it and shook the envelope until the return Portkey tumbled into the soft dirt. Draco reached for the Portkey and the dirt cellar wavered before his eyes as he was sucked back and spit into the snow outside of the Hogwarts entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the fic is a little Draco-heavy in recent chapters, but I promise, its still Harry's story, too! More Harry to come. PLEASE review. Please, please, please! I almost compulsively check my e-mail to see if there are any reviews. And yes, I just admitted that. So, yeah. Please. If you are reading, review! I live for them.


	11. Chapter 11

For the past several days, Harry had gotten himself into the habit of starting and ending his days by unfolding the Marauder's Map. He told himself he was just checking to see if Hogwarts was safe, looking out for Filch and Peeves and all that, but his eyes were always drawn to Malfoy's name.

This time, as Harry opened his Marauder's Map, he told himself he was looking for Dumbledore. Dumbledore had wanted to meet with Harry and it would be silly for Harry to go all the way to Dumbledore's office just to find it empty. As the ink bled over the parchment, arranging itself into a castle diagram, Harry's eyes were drawn to a small, stationary dot at the very edge of the map. In fact, the dot was so far to the edge of the map that the name did not fully register.

At the entrance to Hogwarts on the border of the grounds was a half of a dot and the letters "OY."

What Harry found strange was that the dot did not move at all.

This was a normal occurrence on his Marauder's Map, of course, as not all people moved all of the time, but for this particular location Harry found it odd that the person was not entering or leaving the school. The person was just _there_.

He shrugged and put it out of his mind. Perhaps they were waiting for someone. Harry drew his finger along the map until he found Dumbledore who was currently in his office, as he had told Harry he would be. "Mischief managed," he said, and carefully folded the parchment and placed it in his school bag.

Dumbledore had asked to meet with Harry privately, but didn't explain what it was for-just that it was "very important." So Harry bid farewell to the Gryffindor boys in the dorm, picked up his school-bag and headed to the office of the Headmaster.

"Jelly Slugs," he told the gargoyle, and was granted admittance to the spiral stone staircase.

As Harry wound his way up the staircase that lead to Dumbledore's office, he heard the greasy voice of Professor Snape, muffled and intense coming out of the room. He tiptoed the rest of the way up and pressed against the door to listen.

"—don't know where he is. He could be dead, for all we know!"

"Severus. You're feeling guilty and you—" Dumbledore's voice was cut off.

"Of _course_ I'm feeling guilty, Albus! I let him go! It's been hours and I haven't received word about—"

" _ACHOO!"_

Shit.

The voices stopped.

The door to Dumbledore's office flew open, magically, with a bang. Harry stood before his professors with his hands in his pockets, sniffling and looking sheepish.

"Harry . . ." Dumbledore began in a stern voice.

Snape appeared livid, but said nothing.

"Er—sorry Professor Dumbledore. You said you wanted to see me?"

Snape narrowed his eyes. "Don't play stupid, Potter. You were spying!" he snarled.

"Severus!"

Snape continued. "Perhaps you were unaware, Potter, but it is customary to knock upon arrival, as opposed to eavesdropping on private matters then sneezing your way into them."

Harry frowned. If they had wanted the conversation to be private, then they should have cast a Silencing Charm . . . "I didn't hear anything, anyway," Harry muttered, petulantly.

Snape glowered at Harry, then turned to Dumbledore. "I see we are done here. Good evening, Headmaster." He gave a slight bow and turned to leave, his dark eyes shooting daggers at Harry as he passed.

"Severus," Dumbledore called after him. "Do let me know if you hear any news."

Snape paused and turned back, appearing paler than usual. He nodded curtly, then left.

Harry stood in the doorway feeling uncomfortable. Dumbledore appeared to consider him for a moment.

"Have a seat, Harry," Dumbledore offered, finally, looking less than pleased. "We have much to discuss."

Harry swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Crystallised pineapple?" Dumbledore offered. There was a mysterious glint in his eye.

Harry nodded and took the sweet.

….

….

….

It was nearly suppertime and the sun had set over Hogwarts when Harry left Professor Dumbledore's office, feeling exhausted and utterly hopeless. His mind was spinning with all of the new information about Voldemort and the possibility of these—Horcruxes—added a whole new level of impossibility to what already felt like an impossible task. Now, Harry would have to kill Voldemort not one, but _five_ times, at least. Dumbledore suspected that the madman had split his soul _seven times_ to attempt immortality. Two of these soul-possessing objects, Horcruxes, had been destroyed already.

Harry had stabbed Tom Riddle's diary with a basilisk fang in second year and the object had seemingly _bled_ to death.

Dumbledore's hand had burnt to a crisp over the summer, which was the result of a cursed Horcrux—Marvolo Gaunt's ring. And what of the others, if there _were_ others? Dumbledore seemed to think so, but how could he know for certain? How would they _find_ them? And what if they held dark curses worse than the ring?

Plus, witnessing the Pensieve memories from Voldemort's childhood gave Harry a sense of unease that left a prickly feeling on his skin. He rubbed his arms quickly to try and remove the chill, but the gloom had already been cast.

On top of that, Harry was expected to get Professor Slughorn to not only _confess_ to giving Voldemort information about Horcruxes, but to actually provide Harry with the exact memory of the occasion. Apparently, the man was filled with such guilt over whatever he had told Riddle as a child, that Slughorn had actually tampered with a memory to keep Dumbledore from learning the truth-a truth that could help them to win the war. And, since Dumbledore was unable to get it himself, it was now all up to Harry.

Merlin.

Harry dragged himself to the Great Hall for supper in a dark haze and decided that he would begin schmoozing Slughorn at dinner somehow. _How,_ he did not know. At first he'd considered complimenting Slughorn's wardrobe choice for the day, then quickly chastised himself for his lame plan. He could do this without coming off like a complete ponce.

He could be smooth. Harry could manipulate him, sure. Yeah. Sure. No problem.

Harry mumbled to himself as he imagined several scenarios, playing them out in his mind as though reading from a script. He pictured himself joking around with Slughorn in the corner of the Great Hall or in the Potions classroom. Slughorn would laugh appreciatively at Harry's wit and ask how he could be of service. Harry would then nod his head solemnly as he expressed the necessity of his task and his need for the memory. Each situation ended up with Slughorn patting Harry on the back and calling him a wily, little dickens. Harry would grin, make a cheeky remark about "learning from the best" and saunter off with Slughorn's memory in hand.

Easy. It would be so easy.

Ron, Dean, Hermione and Ginny were already at the table when Harry entered the Great Hall. They waved him over and he gave them a slightly forced smile and sat to join the conversation.

"How'd it go?" Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. He really didn't want to get into it yet and, besides, most of what he learned had to be kept a secret. "Fine."

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"I'll tell you about it, later," Harry promised. This seemed to satisfy her and she returned to admiring the slinky, pewter bracelet that Ginny had just charmed for her out of a napkin scrap. The girls were poring over Ginny's new book that had arrived that morning— _Charming Charms: Charming Charming Charms with Charm . . . on the Cheap!_ by Charmayne Lockhart, author of the best-selling biography, _My Charming Brother: How Gilderoy Lockhart Charmed his way into our Harts_. A colorful stack of stickers on the front cover indicated multiple mark-downs in price.

"Lockhart may be washed up, but the charms still work. I got this book half-off!" Ginny chirped, as she ran her finger down a set of instructions that promised to charm a braid into a turquoise headband.

Harry glanced away from the girls to look up at the staff table. Snape was seated in his usual spot, though he was craning his neck and peering into the crowd of the students, as if searching for someone. Oddly enough, Slughorn, who was never one to miss a meal, was not there.

Harry vaguely wondered about Slughorn's absence as he stirred his mushroom soup. He continued to run through the wooing scenarios in his mind as he watched Parvati's quick fingers plait a tight, tiny braid over the top of Ginny's head. Minutes later, when Slughorn still had not shown and Ginny was admiring her _charming_ sparkly, turquoise headband, Harry pulled out his Marauder's Map, recited the incantation and tapped his fingers impatiently as the magical map spread over the parchment in rolling, black waves.

"Oh, how _charming_ , Ginny!" Lavender squealed.

"My, Ginny, what a _charming charm_ you've got there," Parvati drawled.

Ginny stuck out a hand and said in her snootiest voice, " _Charmed_ , I'm sure." The girls giggled and continued this inane charade for far longer than any reasonable joke should last.

When the map was finally visible, Harry surveyed it quickly, glancing first towards the Slytherin dungeons. There was Slughorn, right in his private quarters with . . . Professor Trelawney.

Hmmm, interesting. Very interesting, _indeed_.

Harry grinned at Ron and pointed to the two dots. Ron raised his eyebrows suggestively and made a rude gesture.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, _honestly_. Boys."

"I'll bet Slughorn is really _turning on the charm_ down there," piped Neville and the boys audibly groaned. Seamus gave Neville a light punch on the arm.

"Neville!" cried Ron. "Not you, too!"

"That's how they get you," Seamus warned, his face serious. He and Ron exchanged a knowing look. "They suck you in with their mindless drivel until your brain turns to mush and you forget your name."

Harry laughed with the others and began to tuck the map away, when the half-dot by the main entrance caught his eye again.

It had moved slightly—very slightly—but it was still there, hours later, in the snow.

The letters beneath the dot now said "FOY," and Harry could have slapped himself for not making the connection sooner. Malfoy had _left_ Hogwarts that morning to do Merlin-knows-what and now he'd been lingering around the main entrance of Hogwarts, for hours, in the snow. He must have been up to trouble. _Or in trouble_ , that pesky voice repeated and Harry frowned. He had wanted to have a nice evening in his room, mulling over the new information from Dumbledore and beginning to plot his manipulation of Slughorn, but this was, well, it was _Malfoy_ , and it required his immediate attention.

Harry, his agitation increasing each time he glanced at the stationary _FOY_ on his map, quickly gobbled up his mushroom soup.

"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked as he dropped his spoon into the bowl with a clatter.

Harry forced himself to grin. "It's nothing. I just—look." Harry pointed to the dot on the map.

Hermione and Ron had complained the last time Harry went off on his own, claiming that they wanted to be included the next time. Well, here was their chance.

Hermione squinted at the map and Ron blinked at him stupidly.

"It's Malfoy," Harry explained. "He's been at the front entrance for hours."

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look that Harry did not like. "Harry," Ron said, slowly. "That dot says 'FOY.'"

Harry's felt his eyes bug out of his head. "Ron!" He banged his fists onto the table, causing his spoon to jump out of his bowl onto the floor. "Merlin! Why do you two constantly doubt everything I say? This is getting ridiculous!"

"No, Harry! This fixation that you have on Malfoy is what's getting ridiculous," Ron grumbled. "I can't stand the bugger, either, but lay off of him!"

Harry stood angrily and gestured to the wide expanse of the Great Hall. "Do you see him here? Do you, Ron? Do you, Hermione?"

"He had some family emergency," Ron tried to point out. "That's what I heard Slughorn say."

"Yes, perhaps he did, but that doesn't explain why he's been at the front entrance of Hogwarts for _hours—_ "

"You've been watching him for hours, Harry?" Hermione asked in a small voice. Her nose was wrinkled up, as though she was thinking something over.

"Yes! But—wait, no! That's not—"

"That's a bit weird, Harry, even for you," Ron said.

Harry stood and glared fiercely. "Fine. Fuck it. You know what? You two say you want me to include you and then every time I say something you act as though I'm bloody insane. I didn't think the two of _you_ would start buying into tabloid fodder, but obviously I was wrong."

Harry was fuming. What was their problem? Why couldn't his friends just look at the facts and trust Harry's instincts and support him? He was certain that it was Malfoy. Positive. Harry briefly considered telling them what he had overheard as further proof, but decided against it, knowing they would deem him crazier than they already had.

It wasn't fair. Harry was right and he knew it and he was going to prove them wrong.

He snatched up his bag, grumbling something about unsupportive friends and stalked out of the Great Hall, ignoring calls from Hermione and Ron to 'settle down' and 'come and sit, Harry!'

When Harry reached the hallway, he realized that he didn't know what to do. If Malfoy was stuck outside of Hogwarts, then Malfoy needed to get inside. If Malfoy was up to no good, however, then perhaps there was good reason to deny his admittance into the school.

_But if he was hurt . . ._

Harry remembered Snape's warning words.

" _It could be a trick!"_

" _I'll handle it . . . just say I have a family emergency."_

" _Family emergency might not be far from the truth . . ."_

Harry bit his lip and began to pace the hallway. Who should he tell? Snape's words to Dumbledore told Harry that the greasy git was definitely concerned about Malfoy's whereabouts. Snape was Malfoy's Head of House, after all. Harry should tell Snape.

But, if Snape and Malfoy were both plotting for Voldemort, then Snape should not be told. What if Malfoy had something dangerous on him or, well, Harry didn't really know, but he didn't think he could trust Snape.

Someone had to check on Malfoy, though, and let him into the school . . .

Hagrid! Of course.

Harry headed first to his dorm to get his weather-proof snow gear and cloak (he had learned this lesson the hard way.) Then he sprinted over the snowy grounds toward Hagrid's hut, illuminated in the darkness by a warm, glowing fire inside.

Harry knocked on the knotted wooden door.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'," Hagrid grumbled, and Harry grinned despite himself. Heavy footsteps could be heard, followed by the clatter of dishes. The door to Hagrid's hut flew open with bang and immediately Fang leapt onto Harry and nearly tackled him into the snow.

"Down, Fang! Ye' crazy—" Hagrid said, then his beard shifted upwards as though he were smiling. "Harry! 'S been awhile! Ye know yer shouldn' be down here. But, ah well. Come on in! I'll give ye a cuppa. Just gotta fill me kettle. . . "

Hagrid turned to head toward the stove. A hot cup of tea would have been wonderful, but Harry had more pressing issues. "Wait. Hagrid. It's-someone's been stuck outside of Hogwarts for hours."

Hagrid turned and frowned. "Outsider Hogwars'?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. I think it might be Malfoy, but I don't know for sure. I just know they've been there for hours . . . in the snow. Might be hurt, I don't know. Will you at least go check?"

"'Course Harry." Hagrid grabbed his furry cloak and, without further questions, began to lumber toward the main entrance of Hogwarts, with Harry trotting at his heels.

Sure enough, when they approached the heavily warded gates of Hogwarts, Harry spotted a crumpled form in the snow. He had expected it, but actually seeing someone collapsed in the snow like that, and knowing that the person had been there for hours, sent an icy chill through him. He sprinted toward the gates, his stomach in knots.

As he grew closer, Harry could see that the snow-dusted hair, illuminated in a streak of moonlight, was unmistakably blonde.

"Malfoy," he breathed. Malfoy was on his knees. His arms were buried in the snow in front of him, as if he were bracing himself from falling, and his head hung against his chest. A layer of snow had gathered on his back. Judging by the amount of snow that had collected on the boy, Malfoy had not moved from this position in hours. Harry moved closer and called louder. "Malfoy!"

Malfoy was shivering violently, but he did not move. He did not acknowledge their presence at all.

Harry scrambled forward with mounting concern. What if Malfoy was seriously injured? Clearly, he was half-frozen, but what were the repercussions of staying in the snow for that long? _Why_ had he been in the snow for that long?

Hagrid was opening the gates as Harry scrutinized Malfoy, looking for clues, _something_ , that would give him an idea of the situation.

As soon as the gates were open, Harry plunged into the snow in front of Malfoy. All fears of what the boy possessed, or planned, were erased from Harry's mind as he placed a hand on Malfoy's trembling back and shook him. "Malfoy," he said again, more urgently. Harry heard the clacking of teeth, but nothing else.

Harry exchanged glances with Hagrid, and looked back to the shivering form in the snow. "Come on, get up. You can't stay here."

Malfoy said nothing.

Growing panicked, Harry took Malfoy's head in his gloved hand and lifted Malfoy's face by the chin. His lips were blue and shivering. There were frozen tear tracks down his face and his swollen, red eyes stared vacantly beyond Harry.

"Shit," Harry muttered, then looked to Hagrid again for help. Hagrid clamored forward and stooped down on one knee.

"Come on, Malfoy," Hagrid said, gently. Malfoy did not respond. Hagrid sighed, then stepped around him. He wrapped his bear-like arms around the boy and hoisted him up to a standing position.

Light sounds of frost cracking and ice breaking could be heard as Malfoy's legs were forcibly straightened and his body was uncurled.

What had happened to him? Harry was almost certain that Malfoy had gone to see Voldemort that day. What had that bastard done to him?

Hagrid went to lift Malfoy to carry him, but Harry protested. "No, Hagrid. Let him walk himself. He can stand. He should try and walk and get his blood moving around, right?"

Hagrid grunted in agreement and set Malfoy back in the snow.

Hagrid and Harry had walked a few steps towards the castle when they realized that Malfoy was not with them. Harry stopped walking and looked back. Malfoy stood, hunched forward. His limbs hung limply, like a wind-up doll with a broken motor, waiting for someone to guide its next move.

"I've got him," Harry said to Hagrid. Harry walked back to Malfoy and wrapped an arm around Malfoy's waist. He began walking and, to his relief, Malfoy went through the motions of walking beside him. He did not speak, did not acknowledge Harry or Hagrid, and his chattering ran so deeply, it seemed to begin right at his core.

The three quickly made their way over the grounds toward the castle.

"Wouldn' it be quicker if yer Levertated 'em, Harry?"

Harry shot Hagrid a glance. "No. Malfoy'd kill me if I did that."

Hagrid gave a humorless laugh. "I reckon he would."

"This is fine," Harry insisted. "He needs to go to straight to the Infirmary, though."

Hagrid, Harry and Malfoy reached the warmth of the castle and began making their way to the Infirmary. Either Malfoy wanted to go to the Infirmary, or he was too out of it to know what was going on. Harry couldn't tell if his silence was intentional or if it was caused by a spell, but Harry was certain of one thing—Draco Malfoy was distraught beyond anything Harry had ever seen before.

Thankfully, students were still in the Great Hall, so no one saw Harry and Hagrid guide a frozen Malfoy through the castle.

When they reached the Infirmary, Harry tentatively removed his supporting arm from Malfoy's back. Malfoy promptly collapsed onto Harry, who was so startled he simply grabbed him around the middle to keep him from falling.

"Malfoy," Harry murmured into his frozen hair. It smelled like snow and sweat. Harry pulled back and looked carefully at him, wanting to ask if he was okay but knowing that he would get no response.

The answer was obviously _no_ , anyway.

Malfoy turned to Harry with with miserable eyes. Through his chattering teeth, Malfoy held Harry's gaze for a moment, then appeared confused. "Potter?"

"Malfoy—what happened?" Harry glanced up at Hagrid, seeing his own relief reflected in the large man's eyes. Malfoy had responded! But when Harry looked back at him, the recognition had died from Malfoy's eyes, and his brief moment of lucidity had passed.

"Madame Pomfrey!" Harry called out, still clutching Malfoy, but trying to shift the boy so that he was not lying fully against him. Malfoy's cloak felt ice cold and the snow and frost on the wool was just beginning to melt. A glint of silver caught Harry's eye, and he noticed that Malfoy was clutching what looked like a Muggle coin in his trembling, left fist.

Madame Pomfrey came hustling around the corner. "What is it _now_ , Mr. P—oh, dear. Mr. Malfoy! You're _blue!_ " Madame Pomfrey looked frantically from one person to the next, waiting for an explanation. "Well?" she demanded, already busy preparing warming potions for Malfoy.

"Foun' em like this, Madame Pomfrey. Looks as though e's been outside fer hours."

"Mr. Malfoy, are you alright?" she asked him, as she dosed out a potion into a small vial. "What happened? Are you injured?"

Malfoy stared, expressionless. Madame Pomfrey stepped forward and tilted a potion into his mouth. Malfoy swallowed obediently.

Madame Pomfrey frowned at him, then looked to Hagrid and Harry for further explanation. "Is he under some kind of spell? Why isn't he speaking?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know . . . I don't think so, but maybe. We just found him like this. I think he's.. er…upset. But I don't know. Mostly, he's frozen."

She nodded. "Okay. Okay. Thank you, gentlemen, for bringing him here. You may go."

"But—" Harry protested, "is he going to be all right? What's wrong with him?"

Madame Pomfrey frowned. "I think he is going to be fine with a few potions and a good night's rest. You may go now."

"Can't I just wait around until you know what's wrong with him? To be sure?" Harry asked. Hagrid was peering curiously at Harry and Madame Pomrey's face held a similar expression.

"You will be of no further assistance to him, Mr. Potter. He appears exhausted and needs rest. Your presence here is unnecessary."

"But—"

She gave Harry a patronizing smile. "Mr. Potter. Should anything happen to him, I will be sure to let you know. In the meantime, you are distracting me and you need to leave this Infirmary at once. Mr. Hagrid, please escort Mr. Potter to his room."

"Okay, okay! I don't need an _escort_ , Madame Pomfrey. I can find it myself."

"Yer sure Harry?" Hagrid patted him on the shoulder and Harry gave him a tight smile.

"Yeah. Thanks for your help. Good night, Hagrid. Madame Pomfrey. Malfoy." Harry gave a little nod to each person, then turned and left for his dorm.

Harry would come back tomorrow morning and check to be sure.

He _would_ come back tomorrow morning and check.

He gave a self-deprecating head-shake. This was getting insane. Maybe Hermione and Ron were right. Maybe Harry was obsessed with Malfoy.

But he hated Malfoy.

No, he _cared_ about him. Harry had said as much to the prat.

So why the hell was he obsessively _caring_ about Malfoy?

Because! Malfoy was in trouble—er—causing trouble.

Regardless, Malfoy's current condition could not reflect anything good. Whatever Malfoy was planning, whatever he was mixed up in, it was bad. It was really, really bad. Perhaps worse than Harry had initially thought.

Harry wanted to help Malfoy, but if Malfoy was truly a Death Eater whose life was on the line, then Harry was his enemy. Malfoy _would_ hurt Harry in order to protect his family. He would not change allegiances, not that Harry had hoped for that.

Bullshit. He had. But he'd known it was a long shot. And yet, he felt drawn to the boy like a magnet. He wanted to be around him.

He wanted to be _around_ him?

Harry sighed. It was the truth. He did. But maybe Harry could still help Malfoy in another way, in the kind of way that he _had_ been, unwittingly, for the last month . . . Harry could be there for Malfoy. He would support him. He would _try_ , really, truly _try_ to just be there for Malfoy despite his allegiance with Voldemort.

This was completely insane, he knew, but the boy needed someone. Harry would be that someone. Harry _wanted_ to be that someone. He couldn't explain it, but when he saw Malfoy's crumpled, broken form on the ground outside the gates of Hogwarts, something shifted inside him permanently. They could never go back to the way they used to be, or, at least, Harry could not. Not really. He could never _truly_ hate Malfoy. Too much had happened.

Malfoy had taken care of Harry and read to him when he was sick. Malfoy had laughed when Harry told him terrible fairy tales and he had liked making Malfoy laugh, even when the laughter was at his expense. Harry had given the git his stupid-looking green hat and Malfoy had paraded around Hogwarts in it for two weeks because he was embarrassed about his spiky, baby-chick haircut and only Harry knew why he was wearing it.

Malfoy had eaten coins when he got hungry.

He talked to himself when he was nervous.

He memorized nursery rhymes from beginning to end.

And he could sing unlike anyone Harry had ever heard before.

Malfoy was being used and manipulated, strung along like a puppet in Voldemort's hands. Despite the fact that Malfoy had been a prat for the last six years, the things going on in Malfoy's life now were out of his hands. He was acting on Voldemort's orders, under fear of death.

Harry was determined to try and support the fucked-up boy without challenging him for his faults and choices. He would _try_. Would he be able to? Probably not. Would Malfoy want him to? Definitely not. But, dammit, Harry was in too deep and he could not ignore what he saw happening in front of his own eyes. He had to try.

Harry would be back tomorrow morning.

Fucking hell.

….

….

….

"Hey, Harry," Ron clapped a hand onto Harry's shoulder when he entered the Gryffindor Common Room later that evening. Harry flinched and stepped back. "Oh, come on, Harry! Hermione and I were just—"

"I'll have the two of you know," Harry began and eyed his friends with disgust, "that I was completely right."

Hermione was petting Crookshanks from a spot on the floor by the fire. Ron was standing a few feet away from Harry, looking hurt from the unexpected snub.

"Right about what?" Hermione asked, gently.

"About _Mal—_ " Harry realized he was shouting and cut his voice down to a whisper. "About Malfoy!" he hissed.

"That he's up to no good? Or getting in trouble?" Ron asked. His voice was edged with scorn.

"Both!" Harry exploded. He could feel his heart rate rising as he grew inexplicably angry. He began to pace the Common Room, raving. "It _was_ Malfoy at the front gate of Hogwarts! And it's a good thing I went, too. When Hagrid and I found him he was half frozen and completely out of it! He'd been there for hours."

Hermione paled.

"Hagrid?" Ron asked, stupidly.

"Yes, _Hagrid._ You know, since you two were too busy to take me seriously."

"It's not that we were too busy, Harry," Hermione began, but was cut off by Ron.

"We just didn't take you seriously."

"Ron!"

"I see." Harry went to shove past them towards his room when he stopped and turned back. "You know. You two complain that I don't tell you what's going on or what I'm up to. _This_ ," he gestured wildly about the room, "is why. Don't expect me to ask for your help in the future."

"Harry, come on," Ron cried. "Don't be like that. I was joking."

Harry ignored him and turned to stomp off to his dorm and sulk when a hand caught him around the upper arm and spun him around. It was Hermione.

"What?" he snapped.

Hermione frowned and looked at him closely, then dragged him to the opposite corner of the room, where Lavender and Parvati usually sat, and pushed him down into one of two purple, suede chairs that winged a small, glass tabletop. Hermione took the other.

"What?" Harry asked again, irritated.

"We need to talk," Hermione said.

Harry crossed his arms and turned his head away from her, his body language indicating everything but the desire the talk. "Fine. What? I'm listening," he said to the wall.

"Harry," she began tentatively. She stopped and shifted. "Alright. What's with you and Malfoy, anyway?"

Harry scowled deeper. "I'm not _obsessed_ , Hermione. I've told you, and now I know with _certainty_ that he is up to something—that he has a task for Voldemort—"

She waved her hand dismissively. "Yes, yes, you've told me all of this but . . ." her voice trailed off, uncertain.

Harry's heart began to beat faster. "What? What else is there?"

"That's just it." She looked up at him, softly. "I don't _know_ , Harry. You tell _me._ "

"What are you—?" Harry stuttered. "What, what do you mean?"

Hermione sighed and folded her hands in her lap. "He asked about you, you know."

He asked—

He—

_What?_

Harry said nothing for a moment. He pressed his lips together then tried to take one controlling breath. "Wh-who did?"

"Malfoy."

Harry felt his cheeks heat up and adrenaline sprint through his body. "What did he want?" Malfoy had asked about him? Malfoy had asked _Hermione_ about Harry? What the hell?

She nodded, smiling slightly. "It was when you had the flu. He asked me how you were feeling."

"He did?" Harry asked in a small voice, wondering if his reaction to this news was entirely wrong. He couldn't remember. Was Harry supposed to be angry about this? Because he wasn't angry. Not at all. He felt confused and . . . pleased. Harry frowned as he traced a capital H into the purple suede lining of the chair.

Hermione nodded again and her smile grew. "Yeah. I asked him how he knew you were sick and he said because you had a fever. And then he more or less admitted that you two had been stuck in the Shrieking Shack together."

"H-He did?" Harry undid the capital H and started over.

Hermione's smile slipped from her face and she placed a hand on the arm of Harry's chair to quell his tracing. Harry stared, unblinking, at her hand, then shifted and began rubbing circles in his forearms with his thumbs.

"Harry," she asked. "What happened there?"

Harry jumped as if stung. "What ha . . ? N-Nothing! Nothing happened! Why would you—? He's just. Just being. Stupid." Harry took a deep breath and tried again. "What do you mean, he asked you about me? How were you even talking in the first place?"

She grinned then, as if enjoying the memory. "Let's just say . . . he wasn't quite _himself_ at the time."

Not himself? Had the idiot been under a Sleeping Charm, again? Oh, Malfoy, you stupid, stupid fuck.

Harry pinned Hermione with a wild stare. "What do you mean, not himself?"

She shrank back, slightly affronted by Harry's reaction. "I just—he was, um. Altered?"

Harry threw his head back against the chair. "Fuck. Hermione. You need to tell me what you mean. Like he was _asleep_ altered or what?"

She shook her head in wonder and gestured at Harry. "This. _This_ is exactly what I'm talking about. Like you're worried about him or something!"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "And if I am?"

Hermione's mouth shrunk to the size of a buttonhole. "Oh. Y-you are?"

Harry let out an exasperated sigh and buried his head in his hands. "What's wrong with me?"

He felt her gentle hand on his shoulder. " _Nothing_ is wrong with you, Harry. I just find it, well, odd, that you all of the sudden care this much about someone you've proclaimed to hate for so many years."

Harry groaned into his hands. "He's still an arsehole."

Hermione shrugged. "But you care about him. For some reason. And, to tell you the truth, I might know why."

Harry peered at her from over his hands. "Why?"

"I told him the same thing. That I think he has some human in him, after all."

Harry felt his mouth quirk up at the corners. He felt a rush of gratitude toward his friend for at least trying to understand. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, I reckon that's why." He took a deep breath. "Probably _more_ human in him than any of us. He's . . . falling apart, Hermione," Harry confessed. "It's a bit frightening to watch."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah. I guess I just haven't been paying much attention, but you're right. And if what you say is true . . . about him being a Death Eater, well, I don't know, Harry. Shouldn't you avoid him? He still can't be trusted."

Harry dropped his head back down into his hands again. "I _know_ , Hermione."

She patted him on the shoulder, reassuringly. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you, Harry."

He grunted.

"But," she continued, "I guess this obsession thing is a bit different when you realize it isn't coming from a place of hatred. It seems to hold a bit more bearing when it comes from a place of concern."

Harry nodded meekly. "But I still think he's up to something."

She smacked his shoulder and they both laughed. "Oh, _do_ shut up, Harry."

His face suddenly sobered. "Speaking of Voldemort, Hermione. Uh, I met with Dumbledore and—"

"And?" she pressed.

Harry glanced over to where Ron was muttering angrily to himself while scribbling with a gray crayon on a large piece of parchment.

"And—we should get Ron."

Hermione nodded, then hurried over to Ron. He looked up and shot Harry a mean look. Harry rolled his eyes and motioned for Ron to come over. Hermione pulled Ron by the upper arm. He set his crayon down and the two joined Harry. Hermione returned to her seat on the purple chair and Ron dragged the glass table back and perched on the edge, carefully.

Harry cast the Muffliato spell that he'd learned from the previous owner's annotations in his Advanced Potion Making text. Hermione frowned at him.

"What? It works!" Harry protested.

"I still don't like it, Harry. You shouldn't be using spells that some student scribbled in an old Potions text. It could be dangerous. We've been over this."

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," said Ron, suddenly eager to hear about Harry's meeting with Dumbledore. "You're only jealous because Slughorn thinks Harry's a Potions genius!"

"It isn't fair," she admitted, sounding sulky.

"Well, it actually might come in handy more than we think," said Harry. He then explained to his friends the first assignment that Dumbledore had given him—to find Slughorn and procure the untainted Horcrux memory.

When his friends began to wonder about what the Horcruxes were made of and where the Horcruxes could be and how one would go about destroying one and if Voldemort could tell when they were destroyed and couldn't he just make others and no, Ron, he has hardly any human left in him as it is and . . .

Harry was more than ready for bed.

….

….

….

Draco Malfoy was released from the Infirmary at 7:54 a.m. After a night of blood-warming potions, multiple treatments for frostbite in his hands and feet and hours of rest, his vitals had returned to normal and he was deemed physically healthy.

The problem was, Draco still had not spoken a word.

Madame Pomfrey had checked his body over and over again for undetected curses, but found none. If Draco Malfoy was not speaking, it was because he was choosing not to speak. Madame Pomfrey could recognize the signs of emotional trauma and Draco had them all. She wrote Draco a pass that excused him from participating in class and a pass to return to her that evening so that she could check on him.

Madame Pomfrey did not specialize in emotional care, but even she could see when a patient needed help. She had alerted Professor Snape of Draco's state the evening prior and he had burst into the room, face awash with both panic and relief. Professor Snape's eyes had narrowed when he heard that Harry Potter was the one to rescue his favorite student, but, nevertheless, relief had overwhelmed the man and he sat in a chair beside the sleeping boy for an hour, keeping watch. Once Madame Pomfrey had properly assured him that Draco was fine, Snape had muttered his thanks and returned to his quarters to sleep.

Once released, Draco had found himself heading toward the dungeons.

He stood outside of the Slytherin Common Room for twelve minutes until Malcolm Baddock, giving Draco a strange look, spoke the password. Draco then entered, collected his school supplies, turned around and walked to the Great Hall for breakfast.

He ate four bites of unbuttered toast and took seven sips of water. Pansy and Crabbe exchanged concerned looks when Draco completely ignored their attempts at conversation and chose, instead, to stare at the remaining toast on his plate.

When breakfast was over, Draco walked to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class and sat in his usual seat. When Professor Snape put the students into pairs to practice their defensive spells, Draco pointed his wand at Kevin Entwhistle, but said nothing. Kevin promptly knocked him on his arse, as Draco failed to conjure so much as a defensive shield.

After Kevin Entwhistle knocked Draco on his arse five times, Entwhistle gave the boy a funny look and lowered his wand. He turned to Professor Snape and shrugged. Snape, appearing bewildered, helped Draco off the floor and told him to organize his desk drawers. Entwhistle was matched up with Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott for the remainder of class.

Draco grouped together the rolls of Spell-o-tape, placed loose paperclips into a cup and arranged all of Snape's quills by color. He stacked all of the collected homework and organized the assignments alphabetically by last name. When he had finished that, he began to make a paperclip chain with the clips in the cup. He had chained together a little more than half of them in a pattern of alternating size, before class was over. He placed the paperclip chain back into the cup, gathered his supplies and left.

In Potions, Professor Slughorn called on Draco to describe the combined reaction of elderflower extract and powdered lizard eyes. Draco flipped through his pages of his notes until he arrived at the answer. He then stared, blankly, at his parchment.

"Mr. Malfoy?" Slughorn asked, looking about the room with a jovial grin as though Draco's reaction were some sort of practical joke.

Draco continued to stare at his notes.

"Mr. Malfoy, it's all right there on your parchment. Come, tell us, what is the combined reaction of elderflower extract and powdered lizard eyes?"

Draco blinked at his parchment, but did not look up. On the top of his desk, neatly placed in the upper left–hand corner, was the medical excuse for class participation from Madame Pomfrey. Draco did not refer to it or hand it to Professor Slughorn.

"What's _his_ problem?" someone whispered from the Slytherin side of the room. This comment was followed with laughter.

"I reckon he's finally lost it," said another.

"Not so 'with it' when daddy's in jail, is he?" It sounded like Theodore Nott. Several students snickered behind Draco's back.

Slughorn frowned and stepped up to Draco's table. "Mr. Malfoy?" he asked again. "When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. If you—"

"Professor!" A girl's voice rang out from the Gryffindor side of the room. "Er, Malfoy is not, uh, feeling well today, sir."

Slughorn still standing in front of Draco, turned his head to the girl. "Is that so, Miss Granger?"

"Yes, sir. I can answer that question, though."

Slughorn indulged her with a chuckle and walked away from Draco's table. "Yes, Miss Granger. Very good, very good. Yes, I'm sure you can."

Draco stared at the response for the reaction between elderflower extract and powdered lizard eyes for the rest of class. An hour later, he had memorized the entire page of notes. He had also memorized the layout of the medical excuse, down to the number of dots in the border. Three hundred fifty-two.

After Potions, Draco went to the bathroom.

Draco left the bathroom and headed to Care of Magical Creatures. While the students followed a family of Jarveys as they scampered about the lawn, shaking their tiny fists and hurling insults, Draco stood in one spot of ankle-deep snow with his arms at his sides, gazing at the Forbidden Forest.

At one point a Jarvey escaped the others and made its way over to Draco.

"Hey, pinhead!" it shouted.

Draco stared at the forest.

"Hey you stupid git, are you deaf? Those ugly, pointy, little ears can't hear?"

The Jarvey stomped in a circle in the snow, annoyed by Draco's inattention.

"Hey!" It shook an angry fist. " Hey! Look at me, you bloody wanker, git, goddamn stupid white-headed, thinks-he's-special, prat of a prick-loving, mother-tosser, gormless, witless, brainless, dickless, worthless, useless, lifeless, soundless, gormless, witless, brainless . . . " The Jarvey's voice trailed off as he gave up on Draco and ambled away to instigate fights with more responsive students.

When class was over, Draco turned and left.

For the next week, Draco's behavior was much the same. He changed his clothes, he took his showers, he ate very little and he attended his classes. At night, he would lie in bed and stare at the canopy of his four-poster. Sometimes sleep would come to him. More often, it would not.

Draco would not speak.

To speak was to think, and Draco was not ready to think.

So Draco remained silent.

Pansy tried to get him to talk. Crabbe gave him a piece of pie, but he would not eat it. Professor Snape called him into his office on Wednesday night and the two sat in dead silence for forty-three minutes until Snape gave up and dismissed Draco back to his room. Madame Pomfrey suggested calling his mother and Draco promptly hopped off of the examination table and left the Infirmary.

On Friday, Draco stood, ankle-deep in snow, staring at the Forbidden Forest again during another Care of Magical Creatures class. His clothing hung loosely on his thin frame, the shadows under his eyes resembled bruises and he swayed on his spot with the gentle dizziness of malnutrition.

Hagrid dismissed class. Draco turned and began walking back to the castle.

As he was walking, Potter, who'd been lingering around the forest during Draco's class, caught up to him.

"Hey, Malfoy."

Draco watched the ground move in front of him as he walked.

"Er . . . how about those Jarveys? Bunch of arsehole-creatures, huh? Remind me a bit of you." Potter laughed at his own joke. When Draco did not respond, Potter's laughter trailed off into an uncomfortable silence.

Draco blinked.

"Um . . . so, I finished _A Christmas Carol_. Seamus Finnegan let me borrow a copy. Not bad. I suppose you've written your book report by now."

Draco blinked again and watched his walking feet.

"Yeah, I suppose you have," Potter carried on. "I'll bet your take on it is a bit different than mine, seeing as you're so fond of that Scrooge character. Plus, I'm always terrible at book interpretations. Hermione says I'm a bit too thick for them. I reckon she's probably right."

Draco turned his head, then, and locked eyes with Potter. He inhaled once, exhaled once, rolled his eyes, and dropped his gaze back down to the ground in front of him.

Potter laughed. "I reckon you think I'm a bit thick, too."

Draco snorted.

They reached the castle. "All right," Potter shoved his hands in his pocket and looked around. "See you, Malfoy." Potter gave Draco a short wave, then turned and left.

Draco headed toward the Chapel.

….

….

….

"You were right, Harry," Hermione said again, once they reached the Great Hall for lunch. "Something is definitely up with him."

"Bloody weirdo, if you ask me," Ron muttered thickly, his mouth stuffed with rosemary quail. He reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth. "Did you see him? Bugger hasn't said a word all week! Complete nutter. And _Merlin!_ Last week in Defense, whenKevin Entwhistle just kept knocking him on his arse?" Ron laughed and a bit of food flew out of his mouth. "It was bloody hysterical!"

"Ron, ew," Hermione said, pointing to the glistening bit of food on the table. Ron quickly wiped it up.

"It wasn't hysterical," Harry said into his plate. "It wasn't funny at all. He didn't even try to defend himself. He could have gotten hurt."

"Who _cares_ , Harry? Honestly, the git deserves it!" Ron was looking about the table wildly for agreement. When no one seemed to look his way, he pressed on with determination. "Malfoy beat the piss out of you a few weeks ago. The least he deserves is to fall on his arse a few times. Blimey."

"He _did not_ beat the piss out of me," Harry sulked.

Ron shrugged and pulled a bone out of his mouth. He tossed it haphazardly onto his plate. "Point is, he deserved it."

Harry looked up sharply. "The point _is_ , he is not okay. Apparently everyone else thinks this is funny. Well, I don't. It wouldn't be funny if it was Neville we found half frozen in the snow, so traumatized he couldn't speak for a week!"

"Well _Neville's_ not stupid enough to get mixed up with You-Know-Who's lot! Malfoy asked for it, Harry. He deserves it."

"He doesn't know what he's doing. He needs help," Harry mumbled.

Ron wrinkled up his face. "Harry, have you lost your bloody mind? This is Malfoy we're talking about here, not Neville or some innocent kind of person . . . Draco bloody _Malfoy_."

"Yes, I know," said Harry.

Ron huffed. "Forget it, Harry. I don't get you, lately." Ron shook his head and took his last bite of food. "Dean? Seamus? Let's go sell some forecasts."

Harry shot Ron a glare and Ron returned it. Then Harry felt bad about being nasty to Ron because, really, how could he possibly understand? Hermione understood, but it was only because she'd had some weird conversation with Malfoy. Plus, it was Hermione. Ron, on the other hand, would likely never understand. It was a waste of Harry's time to even try and it was bound to end in an argument, anyway.

Harry sighed and looked over at Hermione. She offered him a small smile, then returned to her conversation with Ginny. It seemed Harry had _her_ support, anyway. Sort of.

….

….

….

"Professor Slughorn?" Harry asked at the end of Potions. "Can I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course, Harry, of course! I always have time for my best and brightest." Slughorn busied himself straightening up the classroom, and Harry grabbed a tray of snake tongues and began to help.

The other students were leaving in groups of two or three, chatting animatedly about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend as they left. Malfoy was mechanically placing items back into his school bag. Slughorn paused for a moment and watched him with a slight frown.

"A bit odd, that one," he murmured, after Malfoy had left the room.

Harry widened his eyes. "Malfoy? But, he's really good in Potions. Better than me, that's for sure."

Slughorn stared at the doorway as the last of the students left. "Perhaps, Harry. If you say so, if you say so." Slughorn shook his head and cleared his voice. "But you!" He beamed proudly at Harry. "What a promising young student. Cheeky, bright, just like your mother, you are."

Harry flushed at the undeserved praise, knowing that he was a piss-poor Potions student and had been consistently pulling the wool over Slughorn's eyes since September. However, it just might play to Harry's advantage in trying to get this damn memory from the man.

Anxious to get the conversation over with, having practiced it in his head so many times, Harry fixed Slughorn with a direct look, much the same as Tom Riddle had in the Pensieve memory.

"Professor Slughorn," he said, as though the man's presence had suddenly reminded Harry of something. "What do you know about . . . Horcruxes?"

Slughorn paled and dropped a vial on the floor. His bewilderment quickly gave way to suspicion. "I beg your pardon?" he asked coldly.

Harry swallowed. Shit. He was supposed to start with a joke! Why hadn't he started with a joke? Harry quickly tried to think of a joke, then shook his head in defeat. He didn't know any bloody jokes.

Well, there was nothing for it, now.

"Um. Horcruxes," Harry repeated, trying to sound confident. "What do you know about them?"

Slughorn fixed Harry with an icy glare. "All I know is that Dumbledore put you up to this and that this conversation is over. Good day, Mr. Potter."

Bloody hell. Harry had fucked it up in two seconds flat. Smooth. "Er—sorry, Professor. I meant no offense. I was just—"

"I said good _day_ , Mr. Potter." Slughorn was gripping his desk so tightly that his knuckles were white. Harry nodded quickly, gave a short, awkward wave and stumbled from the room.

When he reached the hallway, he let out an exasperated sigh and threw his head back against the corridor wall. If Dumbledore couldn't do it, how in the hell was Harry supposed to willingly retrieve this memory from Slughorn?

_Damn._

….

….

….

The rainbow was white. Shockingly white. It didn't make any sense, but somehow every shade of the rainbow was white.

Draco lay on his back on the cream-colored rug with his feet resting under an ivory bench.

Rosmerta had the necklace. Rosmerta had the message. Tomorrow, a student would go to Hogsmeade and Rosmerta would place the student under the Imperius Curse. The student would deliver the necklace to Dumbledore. The deed would be done. Draco and his mother would be safe. Tomorrow, the deed would be done.

Tomorrow, Dumbledore would be dead.

Tomorrow, Draco would murder Dumbledore.

The instructions had been given and the plan was put into place. All Draco had to do was let it unfold.

He watched the rainbows shift overhead and let the white light wash over him, willing it to fill the emptiness he felt inside, wanting desperately for the whiteness to burn him clean.

He stared—for hours—and thought of nothing but the whiteness that enveloped him until it seemed so hot and so bright that he felt as though he were a ray of sun, illuminated, reaching forward, stretching out in beams and touching every corner of the room.

He let the whiteness fill the emptiness. Draco became the void expanse around him as he melted into the room, unwilling to think, unwilling to feel, willing himself only to _be_ in this moment, with this room.

In this moment, Draco was not a murderer. Draco was not a student. His standing appointment with Madame Pomfrey may have come and gone. He was not sure. Time and reality held no meaning. Here, Draco was nothing. He was everything and he was nothing.

He heard a small noise.

….

….

….

"We're gonna make galleons upon galleons tomorrow. Business is expanding to Hogsmeade," Ron announced, as he paced back and forth in front of a grinning Seamus, a smiling Dean, an eye-rolling Hermione and a foot-jiggling Harry.

"Don't you think adult wizards know how to conduct their own Weather Charms, Ron?" Hermione asked.

"Perhaps," said Dean. "But perhaps not."

"And for those who can't forecast the state of the air, Weasley's Weather Watcher will gladly be there!" piped Seamus.

"Ooh, that's good," said Dean. "Write that down."

Ron snatched a scrap of parchment that was slipping from his schoolbag and scribbled it down.

"Okay. Be like Seamus, everyone. More ideas, that's what we need to keep this business fresh. More ideas." Ron snapped his finger once in each one of their faces. Harry flinched back when the snap reached him.

"Can I be excused?" Harry muttered under his breath. Hermione elbowed him.

"What was that, Harry?" Ron asked.

"A dissenter in the group?" added Seamus.

"But I'm not _in_ the group, remember?" Harry asked, trying to keep his tone polite.

"We still need input from our valued customer," pointed out Dean. He shook a knowing finger at him.

Harry huffed. "Fine then. Dean should make your next Weasley's Weather Watcher sign."

The Gryffindors' eyes were drawn to the poster on the floor. Ron had colored a brand new business sign complete with wobbly zig-zags of lightning, five tornadoes that resembled coiled springs with various debris throughout, and the words "Weasley's Weather Watcher" sketched out in umbrellas. V-shaped birds flew all around the top and a big, smiling sun wearing sunglasses flanked not one, but _two_ corners of the picture. The overall effect was that of a not-very-bright six-year-old scribbling with the wrong hand.

Ron frowned at the insult. "Hey! That's not very nice. I spent a lot of time on that, Harry."

Harry shrugged unapologetically. "You asked."

"Harry, if you're going to act like a moody arsehole, then I don't want you to come to any more business meetings," Ron grumbled, eyeing his poster and looking crestfallen.

"Okay," said Harry. "See you later!" And with that, Harry hopped off the couch and headed for the dorms.

"I reckon he has a point," Harry heard Seamus say as he exited the Common Room.

"He does not!" Ron snapped.

Muffled voices of argument could still be heard as Harry made his way to his dorm.

The minute he entered his room, he plopped down onto his bed and began rifling through his school bag.

That afternoon, Harry had tried to talk with Malfoy after watching him drag himself through the week like he was half-dead. Malfoy hadn't spoken with Harry, just as he hadn't spoken with anyone else, but he _had_ responded to him. As Harry was blathering on about something completely stupid and pointless, Malfoy had rolled his eyes at him and snorted.

As far as Harry knew, no one else had managed to get a reaction out of him. Harry wanted to try again. He wanted to be there for him. Something terrible had obviously happened, and it seemed that everyone was just laughing at Malfoy's peculiar behavior.

He shouldn't be alone, Harry decided.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good." Harry let his eyes rove over the map, first checking the dungeons, the Great Hall and even the seventh floor, where Malfoy had been spending much of his recent time. Sometimes Malfoy disappeared off of the map entirely. Harry carefully checked to be sure that this was not one of those times.

He spotted the dot labeled "Draco Malfoy" in a room in the lower North Tower that the map had labeled "The Chapel." What the hell was the Chapel?

Harry shook his head and studied the map, memorizing the directions. Slughorn-wooing could wait until tomorrow, Harry decided. He snatched up his wand, threw on his Invisibility Cloak for good measure, and began making his way to the Chapel.

….

….

….

Harry read the inscription on the doorknocker. _"Firmitas mea caelo oritu."_ What did that mean? Firmitas . . . firm? Mea. My. My firm cello orator? A speaking cello. . . Just as long as it didn't mean "Beware of three-headed dog" or anything. He shrugged, yanked off his Invisibility Cloak and opened the door.

Harry was not sure what he was expecting, but it had not been this.

The room was lit in autumn, earth tones beaming from crystal-prism windows. Greens and browns and goldenrod yellows crossed paths overhead, leaving the wooden floor with gleaming light patterns, sunshine shifting through forest leaves. On a basket-woven carpet of brown and green lay Draco Malfoy, flat on his back, illuminated in patterns of light. Malfoy gazed at the ceiling. His face appeared relaxed and his hands were open, palms-up at his sides with his fingers slightly curled.

Harry took in a sharp inhale of breath, and Malfoy rolled his head slowly toward Harry.

Harry felt the urge to apologize, but something told him to stay quiet and be respectful. He wasn't sure what kind of a chapel this was, but Malfoy was clearly having a moment.

Malfoy stared at Harry for a few seconds, then rolled his head back to gaze at the gleaming wooden beams of the arched ceiling.

Harry observed Malfoy for a while, then carefully shut the door behind him. He inched slowly toward the middle of the room and stepped onto the leafy carpet. He dropped beside Malfoy and lay down on his back, copying Malfoy, palms up, gazing at the soaring ceiling. Harry was unsure of what he was doing, but it just felt _right,_ and, having never been in this situation before, he decided to trust his instincts.

Their heads were now so close together that Harry could hear Malfoy breathing deeply and evenly. He matched his breaths to Malfoy's and imagined that they were camping in midday, Northern Scotland in early autumn. Harry had never actually been camping, but sometimes had dreams in which he lived in a tent, traveling with friends, searching the countryside.

Dudley had gotten a tent once for his tenth birthday. Dudley begged Uncle Vernon to build it for him that day. Seven grueling, cursed hours later, the result was a pile of broken tent pieces, poles jammed in the wrong slots and a migraine that lasted two days. The tent project was abandoned in the corner of the backyard, never to be played with by Dudley. Sometimes, though, when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had gone to bed, Harry would sneak into the backyard with a pocketful of pilfered graham crackers and the emergency flashlight and lay on top of the collapsed canopy, enjoying a few stolen hours out of his cupboard. This felt like that, only a bit more peaceful.

They lay side by side for what could have been hours, breathing and existing in a warm, comfortable silence. He was surprised when he noticed that their thumbs were touching. Harry couldn't remember when that had happened.

Malfoy, it seemed, had realized this at the same time that Harry did, but when Harry went to move his hand away, Malfoy reached out and wrapped his fingers tightly around Harry's in a firm grip.

Malfoy's fingers were warm. Harry imagined that the touch spoke the "thank you" that Malfoy could not. Harry gave Malfoy's hand a light squeeze, accepting his gesture.

After some time, Malfoy released Harry's hand and rolled onto his side to face him. Harry turned to look at Malfoy and found himself gazing into clear, grey eyes. The same eyes that had looked so broken a week ago seemed, now, to possess a glimmer of hope. Malfoy continued to stare directly at Harry, in a way that would normally make Harry uncomfortable but, for some reason, didn't bother him now.

"Terry Boot got me high in here."

Harry nearly choked on his own spit. "What?"

"Terry Boot got me high in here," Malfoy repeated. He blinked and said nothing else until it dawned on Harry exactly what Malfoy was doing. Malfoy was going to talk to Harry. He _wanted_ to talk to Harry, but only if Harry kept to comfortable subjects. Malfoy was not about to discuss what happened last week, and Harry was going to try and respect that.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Harry rolled over to face Malfoy fully. "High on what?"

Malfoy smirked. "Muggle weed."

Harry smirked back. "Did you like it?"

"No." Malfoy widened his eyes and shook his head. "No, I _hated_ it."

Harry snorted in amusement. "I've never tried it, myself," he offered.

"That's not surprising."

"Why not?"

"Because, Potter. You're a morally upstanding Gryffindor who would never ingest recreational poisons."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I drink, remember?"

Malfoy raised his eyebrows back. "Hmm. Good point."

Their conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun, but neither boy minded or noticed. They just continued to stare at each other.

At first it felt almost like a game. How long could they stare at one another before looking away? Who would give up first? Harry felt his face quirk into a smile a few times and saw Malfoy do the same, but neither boy rescinded. But after several minutes, it became something else entirely. It was both hypnotizing and terrifying and Harry realized that neither he, nor Malfoy, was going to stop.

As the minutes ticked by, both of their masks seemed stripped away and they were left bare and unprotected, at the mercy of the other. Nothing, _really,_ was happening, but that didn't stop the unexplainable fear from choking Harry or stop Malfoy's bottom lip from quivering suddenly. Could Malfoy see _everything_ in his eyes?

Malfoy's breath hitched and Harry reached forward to grasp his hand. Malfoy took it and the tiny crease between his eyebrows smoothed out as his breathing steadied.

Once or twice, the thought " _This is really strange, Harry. Blokes don't hold hands and stare at each other's eyes in rainbow-lit rooms"_ flit through his mind, but he promptly shoved it away and trusted his instincts. It felt right.

….

….

….

He knew. Potter knew. He _had_ to know everything. Draco didn't want him to know.

Draco suddenly wanted to tell him everything, but Draco didn't want him to know _this_.

Tomorrow, this time, Draco would be a murderer. He would be off with the Dark Lord, singing his pleas to keep his mother from being Crucioed . . .

Draco felt a familiar stinging behind his eyes. He couldn't. He couldn't let Potter _see_.

Then, suddenly, he felt his hand in Potter's warm grasp, steady and sure, and he felt renewed. Tomorrow was tomorrow . . .

But, here, _now_ . . . Potter was here _now_ and Draco wanted to stay here forever, suspended in non-time, memorizing Potter's face and his missing left eyelashes, noticing that he, again, needed a shave, and doing it all under Potter's permissive gaze. Draco realized that he felt . . . well . . .

Safe.

He knew that part of the reason he felt this way was because the Chapel was designed for relaxation, but something told him that there was more to it than that. Draco had not felt safe when he was here with Boot. Relaxed, yes, among other things, but never safe. He hadn't even felt safe when he was in the room alone, desperate to escape the darkness that filled him, that had strangled him all week.

But earlier that day, Potter spoke to him. Draco could hardly remember what he had said, but from the moment Potter started walking with him until he gave Draco that awkward wave of goodbye, Draco had felt, for the first time all week, safe.

Draco knew that, come tomorrow, he would probably never feel safe again, so he tried not to think about tomorrow. Tomorrow was tomorrow _._ Right now he felt safe, _here_ , with Potter.

Tomorrow was for questions, tomorrow was for regrets, but _now_ was for . . .

Now was for kissing, Draco decided, suddenly.

He dropped his gaze down to Potter's lips and watched as Potter tensed up, jerked out of his meditative game.

"Malfoy, you—"

Draco reached forward then and grasped Potter's warm cheek with his other hand. Potter drew in a gasp of breath and opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could speak, Draco leaned forward and touched his lips, lightly, to Potter's.

And Potter _felt_ warm and safe.

Draco leaned back, panting slightly, and searched Potter's face for some sign that it was okay.

Potter stared back at him, looking completely gobsmacked. He was breathing heavily and his mouth was hanging open . . .

. . . in invitation, Draco decided.

Draco leaned forward and grasped Potter's cheek again. Potter's eyes were round and surprised behind his glasses, but Draco kissed him again, this time fully, on the lips and suddenly he wanted _more_ , he wanted more of Potter _now_ , but he pulled away when he realized that Potter's mouth was frozen beneath his.

Then the enormity of what he had just done hit him and he drew back, horrified. Draco had just kissed Potter. Draco Malfoy had just kissed Harry Potter. Alone. In a weird room. Kissed him. On the lips. Harry Potter.

And, to make matters worse, Potter wasn't moving. He didn't want him back. Draco's deluded mind had not only convinced himself that this was a good idea, but that if he kissed Potter, Potter would kiss him back.

Except Potter _didn't_ and now Draco was humiliated on top of everything else.

Draco took a deep breath and turned away from Potter. "Sorry." It was barely a whisper. He felt his ears burn with embarrassment and tried to swallow the hot lump in his throat. "It was just . . . the room," he finished, lamely. Draco felt Potter's hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off. "Stop it." He didn't need Potter's pity or guilt on top of everything else.

"No, Malfoy, I . . . it wasn't the room," Potter said.

Draco sat up sharply and turned back around to face him. "I said it was the room, so it was the room. Just. It was the room, Potter, I—"

"It _wasn't_ the room!" Potter insisted, then lowered his voice. "I feel it, too."

Draco scoffed. "Oh, don't get all sentimental on me now." He turned away, angry at himself for feeling hurt.

Potter reached forward for Draco's hand, but this time Draco snatched it back. "You, um. Caught me off-guard is all," Potter mumbled. "But, I get it, Malfoy. I feel it, too."

Draco scowled at his knees. "Feel _what?"_

Potter shrugged. "I don't know. This." He gestured between them. "Us. Whatever the hell this is."

"Liar," Draco barked back, then realized how pathetic and desperate that made him sound. He cleared his throat and tried again. "There is no _us_ , Potter."

"I'm _here_ , aren't I?" Potter asked and raised an eyebrow.

Draco regarded him closely. "And why is that?"

Potter had the nerve to laugh. "I don't know. Because I wanted to be. Do you want me to leave?"

Draco shrugged and looked down. The next thing he knew, Potter had his hand on Draco's knee. Draco quickly slapped it off.

Potter inched closer and did it again.

"Stop, Potter," Draco said, but this time he did not bat him away.

Potter, keeping his eyes trained on Draco's face, scooted closer.

Draco had had enough. "Listen here, Potter." Draco was not going to be the object of Potter's pity, Potter's weird pity that had him do things like touch Draco's knees. "I'm not going to—mmph!"

Potter had yanked Draco's head forward and their lips were crashing painfully together. Draco's first instinct was to struggle and shove him off, but Potter quickly tightened his fingers around Draco's wrists and squeezed until Draco and his hands had yielded completely, melting into Potter's warmth. He knew he could push Potter off of him if he really wanted to, but he didn't because, God, it was Potter's lips and they were soft and warm and wet and Draco wanted them. Wanted this.

Potter held Draco's hands out to either side and released his grip, slowly sliding his fingers up Draco's palms, interlocking their fingers and squeezing tightly.

Draco's hands drifted up to explore Potter's shoulders, neck and back. Potter's glasses kept pressing into Draco's right eye, so he plucked the interfering object off of Potter's face and flung it carelessly aside.

Draco rubbed his thumb into the glasses dent behind Potter's ear and Potter sighed in contentment, so Draco did it again. He smiled into Potter's mouth and felt Potter smile back. Desire and curiosity fueled Draco's need to discover and he wanted it all, wanted to touch it all, feel it all, have it all, while it was being offered to him.

He reached a hand out and tangled it into Potter's hair, clutching a handful of it and yanking on it, causing Potter's head to jerk back with a yelp. Potter then reached up and did the same to Draco and Draco immersed his fingertips in the oils of Potter's hair, massaging, digging, bracing himself. Potter mumbled something that sounded like "What the fuck?" but he wasn't stopping, so Draco decided it didn't matter.

He tilted his head back and allowed Potter to trail kisses down the side of his face while Draco tugged fistfuls of Potter's hair. Potter mouth came to a rest on Draco's collarbone and focused its attention on one insanely sensitive spot that left Draco gasping. Draco never would have imagined that someone's— _Potter's!—_ mouth on his collarbone would feel that good.

_God._

He stretched up on his knees and buried his face into the wild, black waves and inhaled deeply, smelling the chestnut-rich oils as he clutched Potter's entire head with a needy possessiveness. He dug his thumbs behind Potter's ears and rubbed up and down. Draco wanted it. He wanted it all.

Potter was panting into Draco's neck as Draco rubbed behind Potter's ear and an image went through Draco's mind of his childhood crup, Perkis, blissfully panting in the sun while Draco scratched behind his ears. The more he tried not to think about Perkis, the more he could _only_ think about him and Draco laughed softly and kept scratching.

Potter removed his lips from Draco and glanced up at him nervously. "What? Am I-?" Potter was still panting and Draco laughed louder.

"You're like a crup, Potter. Scratch you behind the ears and you're hopeless."

Potter relaxed then and grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, well. I reckon it's the glasses. They squeeze behind my ears a bit and I hardly take them off, only—"

Draco pulled on Potter's ears. "Shut up, Potter," he told him, then effectively shut him up with another kiss. Potter's rough facial hair scratched his skin, and Draco ran one hand over the stubble on Potter's cheek.

Draco placed a kiss directly into his mess of waves. Then, unable to resist, he bit lightly on a tuft of Potter's hair until it shifted between his teeth with a crunch. He sucked on the hair, tasting carrots and earth, then punctuated his movement with another kiss. Draco slid back down, running his hands over Potter's shoulders, and digging his fingers and hands into Potter's arms and back, touching and squeezing.

Potter's mouth was open, breathing hot moisture onto Draco's neck. He seemed momentarily enraptured, as he allowed Draco to look, and touch and taste. Then suddenly he reached up and ran his thumbs along Draco's jaw-line. Potter stared at him, just like before, only this time Potter looked curious. He blushed as Draco allowed Potter to slide his fingers over Draco's face, and touch his eyebrows, and tickle his eyelashes. Then Potter looked at Draco with sudden yearning—just _looked_ at him like he wanted him, too—and Draco allowed his heart, for one, brief moment, to soar. Potter wanted _him_.

The minute that thought went through Draco's mind, a darkness began to creep over him, but he shoved it aside and kissed Potter hard. It didn't matter if Potter wanted him. Draco wanted _Potter_ , right now. Draco _had_ Potter right now and right now was all that Draco would have.

He would take right now. That was all that mattered.

Draco held Potter's head between his hands and traced his lower lip over the shape of his scar. Potter let out a strange little whimper, so Draco did it again. Suddenly Draco felt Potter's hands on the top of his own head, on _his_ scar, and he drew back with a gasp.

Potter was staring at him, breathing heavily. Draco unconsciously wiped at his bottom lip. Potter smiled shyly, then, and it was the warmest thing Draco had ever seen. Draco gave him a timid smile back.

Potter took Draco's hands into his and he sat back, cross-legged, and faced him.

Draco dropped from his knees and crossed his legs, as well. It seemed fitting.

They found themselves without words because, really, what could they say?

They watched the mist. They watched the lights. Potter rubbed small circles into Draco's palm with his thumbs and Draco stared at Potter's red trainers and smirked, feeling giddy and ridiculous.

After some time, Potter dropped Draco's hand. "We should probably go," he said, softly, as though it were the last thing he wanted to do.

Certainly, it was the last thing _Draco_ wanted to do. "Yeah."

Potter stood and reached a hand toward Draco. Draco took his hand and Potter pulled him to his feet.

"Can I—" Potter started then looked at the floor and blushed. "Will you be here tomorrow?"

Tomorrow.

"Um, yeah," Draco lied, wrapping his arms around himself and rocking forward on his heels. "Tomorrow."

Potter grinned and stepped forward. "Well, okay. Um, good, then!"

A gripping chill settled again over Draco, but this time he couldn't shake it off. Draco had somehow managed to make _tomorrow_ worse. How was that even possible? How in the fuck was that even _possible_?

"What is this place, anyway?" Potter asked as he searched the floor for his glasses.

Draco saw them, so he handed them to Potter, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. He couldn't look at him. He couldn't see that smile on Potter's face, see that same giddiness that Draco, himself, had felt only moments ago, all the while knowing that in addition to ruining himself, he had somehow dragged Potter down with him.

Potter wanted him _back_.

Potter wanted him.

Draco couldn't do this. He snatched up his bag, keeping his eyes averted. "It's called the Chapel," Draco mumbled, then bolted from the room.

"Malfoy—wait up!" Draco heard Potter's voice before he slammed the heavy, wooden door behind him.

What had he done? Why had he done that? What in the _hell_ made him think that he deserved one last night of doing what he wanted?

And Potter fucking _wanted_ him! The idiot had no _fucking_ idea. No goddamn clue. How the hell could he?

Well, Potter was in for a shock tomorrow, that was for sure. They all were. Draco laughed, but it was an ugly sound.

_Murderer._

Draco clenched his teeth as he felt the familiar prickle of undeserved tears. No. He was not going to cry. He was not going to cry, damn it! He ran down the corridor and pounded up the stairs, when suddenly two hands pinned him against the wall.

It was Potter, he knew, though his eyes were squeezed shut—a physical attempt to block out his emotions. A _failing_ physical attempt to block out his emotions.

"What the hell, Malfoy?" Potter sounded angry and hurt. He grasped Draco's shoulders again and slammed him against the wall a second time.

Good, he thought, let him. He deserved it. Maybe Potter would just kill him now and spare him the repercussions of the house of cards he had built to fall.

"Malfoy, answer me!" Potter shook him again, less violently. His voice was tinged with concern.

Draco's body trembled and his face was screwed up tightly, as if in pain. He was not going to cry. He was fucking wretched, but he did not deserve tears, nor was he going to leave here tonight with Potter feeling remotely sorry for him—with Potter feeling _anything_ for him.

"God damn it, what is your problem?"

_You! Everything! The world!_

"Malfoy!" Potter shook him again.

Draco grasped Potter's shoulders and kneed him in the groin as hard as he could. Potter cried out and staggered back against the wall of the stairs, cursing. He sank to his knees, physical pain and betrayal written on his face—the face that, moments earlier, had been in Draco's hands. Draco paused and gaped, horrified.

_Monster._

Draco ran.

….

….

….


	12. Chapter 12

Harry cursed as the pain in his groin crippled him. He could hear the echoing sounds of Malfoy's feet pounding up the staircase. For a moment, Harry was blinded by the sharp, electric heat that tore through him and he found himself unable to think. As he gasped for breath, the enormity of what had just happened began to dawn on him.

Harry and Malfoy had connected. They had. It was unreal, unlike anything Harry had ever experienced. For a few moments in the Chapel, Harry felt like everything had somehow fallen into place. Malfoy had kissed him.

And then, coward that he was, he ran away.

At first, Harry felt angry. That git had fucking kicked _him._ Malfoy was a stupid, selfish _prick_. How could he do that? How could he pretend to like Harry and then shove him away so violently?

Had Malfoy thought the kiss was a mistake? Harry hadn't thought so—not until now. But Malfoy must have regretted it. Malfoy must have been disgusted. The look on Malfoy's face was pure disgust.

Then why had he kissed Harry in the first fucking place?

Harry's anger quickly turned into pathetic _embarrassment._ Harry had made a fool of himself. He had opened himself up so much to that bigoted liar and had—for some reason— _trusted_ him.

Harry was a bloody fool. What had he been thinking? Malfoy hated him! And, on top of that, Harry was a _boy_ , for Christ's sakes! What in the hell had overcome him? He had followed Malfoy (as usual) laid down next to him, held his fucking _hand—_

_Well, technically, he held my hand first . . ._

No. Malfoy had been vulnerable and upset. The boy had just spoken for the first time in a week and the first thing he did was seek comfort from the only person in the room. The blonde idiot had been half out of his mind and must have panicked when he realized that Harry was devouring him. The revulsion on Malfoy's face had said it all.

Ugh. Harry felt sickened. He was pathetic, so pathetic. And worst of all, though loath to admit it, Harry had kind of enjoyed it—he had _liked_ kissing Malfoy. What did that say about him?

Ugh.

Harry remembered the sounds he had made. Merlin, he was such a loser. Harry's cheeks burned at the unbidden memory that he couldn't seem to push away and he shoved the palms of his hands into his eyes and cursed.

He couldn't believe he had tried to be Malfoy's friend. Couldn't _believe_ he had been worried about him, had tried to _help_ him. He should have just left him in the snow to freeze to death. He fucking should have. It would have spared him this mess and Malfoy would have gotten what he had deserved.

Harry let out of growl of frustration into his hands. No, even knowing what he knew now, he still would not have left Malfoy out there to freeze. Harry couldn't do that, not even to an enemy.

_Because you have a saving people thing._

But if it had been Bellatrix Lestrange in the snow? Voldemort? Would he have saved them? Harry choked out a mirthless laugh.

_Because you have a saving Malfoy thing_.

"Ugh!" he growled again, and punched the stone floor. It made a weak, unsatisfying sound and left him with a throbbing ache that pissed him off more.

…...

Draco had miraculously managed to calm down by the time he reached the Slytherin dorms. He wasn't weak. He wasn't a coward. In fact, the _old_ Draco Malfoy would have used Potter's vulnerability to manipulate him. In _fact_ , he thought, as he scrubbed the last hint of tears from his face and straightened his hair and robes, the _old_ Draco Malfoy is the _new_ Draco Malfoy.

Draco smiled at this revelation as he tapped a rhythm along the stone walls with his wand. The old Draco Malfoy knew how to survive. He had his shit together. He was not a frightened, needy child. All he needed was a good dose of the ice that used to run through his blood and he could return to that cold, calculating Slytherin that he used to be. It was still in him. Things had happened, but hope was not lost.

Draco took a deep breath and tried to summon his fifth year self. He squeezed out memories of Potter and the Dark Lord and Vanishing Cabinets and tried to capture how he had felt a year ago. He could feel his heart rate slowing down and the gripping panic fade away. Suddenly, Draco sensed himself running through the halls with the Inquisitorial Squad, tracking Potter and his lame—

Potter. No.

Draco frowned as he remembered how much of his fifth year was devoted to following Potter around the castle and tattling on him to Umbridge.

No. That was not the Draco he wanted to be. He cleared his throat as he approached the staircase leading to dungeons. Fourth year, then. He'd be fourth year Draco. Yes. Fourth year Draco was _perfect_. He had ruled the school in fourth year. He'd ousted crooked-toothed Flint as leader of the Slytherins. Girls from all houses had thrown themselves at him—well, they _would_ have if they hadn't been so intimidated by his good looks—and he had the whole school wearing those _Potter Stinks_ badges that year, even the Hufflepuffs!

Draco frowned. Potter again. Whatever. He had always hated Potter. The git had been an annoying and ridiculously large presence in Draco's life since he'd started school, but there was nothing he could do about that now. Fourth year Draco would have to suffice.

Draco let out a somewhat maniacal laugh as he plunged his hand into the front pocket of his school bag and pulled out a handful of moonbeam bands, broken quill pieces and Chocolate Frog wrappers. Ttangled in the middle of the mess was a circle of metal with a sharp pin in the center. An old _Potter Stinks_ badge. Perfect.

Feeling that props were necessary to fully summon the old Draco Malfoy, he proudly fastened the badge to the front of his robes and let out another whoop of laughter. Draco spelled a blob of gel into his hands and slicked back his parted, blonde hair into a shiny, shellacked helmet. He loosened his tie and drew his shoulders back into a confident swagger.

He knew he was dangerously shutting out a huge part of his mind right now. It was a bit frightening, as he found he couldn't remember what had happened ten minutes ago, despite a niggling sense that it was something huge. Something huge enough to convince him that he was in fourth year. Draco shoved those reminders away, however, and remained impressed with his ability to control himself.

He swaggered up to the entrance of the Slytherin dorms and smirked. _"Atropa Belladona,"_ he announced with confidence.

Nothing happened.

Draco's smirk turned suspicious. _"Atropa Belladona!"_ he said a bit louder. Still, nothing happened. He shook his head and frowned. Had the Slytherins changed the password? Why would they change the password? Could someone have changed it on purpose to keep him out?

Then again, he had been a bit out of it this week. Maybe it _had_ changed and he just hadn't noticed.

Draco banged on the entrance. "Hey shitheads, open up," he called. When no one opened the door he let out a loud sigh. What the hell?

" _Atropa Belladonna!"_ he said again, feeling his rage grow, but fighting it back down. Malfoy's don't show rage. Not over something like this. _"Atropa fucking Belladonna!"_ he grit out, digging his nails into his palms.

"Draco," an irritated voice came from behind him. "What are you doing?"

Draco spun around and flashed his professor a pleasant smile. "Good evening, Professor," said Draco, brightly. "Might I inquire if there has been an unscheduled change to the Slytherin password? I seem to be having trouble getting inside."

Professor Snape frowned and stepped closer to Draco. His eyes were narrowed and he fixed Draco with a piercing stare. Snape opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut and frowned again, taking another step toward Draco.

Draco instinctively took a step backward. He widened his eyes and put his hands up in mock defense. "Um, is everything alright there, sir?" he joked, lightly.

Snape tilted his head back as he took in Draco's appearance. "Back to your old hairstyle, I see?" Snape asked slowly.

Draco shrugged, unaffected. Answering that question would cause him to think about it, and something told him that he wasn't supposed to think about it. "Can you open the door please, sir? What's the new password?"

"Are you feeling alright, Mr. Malfoy?" Professor Snape asked, his mouth twisting sharply.

Draco laughed. "I feel fine, Professor. Just tell me what the new password is. Or is it still _Atropa Belladonna_?"

Snape shook his head slowly and reached to put his hand on Draco's cheeks as if to feel for a fever. Draco flinched at the cold touch and began to grow annoyed. He swatted Snape's hand off of his face. "I'm _fine,_ Professor," he insisted. Draco could feel fury building up inside of him, but could not target the source of his anger. It was an irritating situation, but not one that called for the rage that he felt welling up inside of him. Draco spun away from Snape. _"Atropa Belladonna,"_ he tried again. Nothing happened. He threw Snape a smug glare. " _See?"_

"Draco," Snape said slowly. "Who told you that was the password?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "It's been the bloody password for months!" Draco widened his eyes at the accidental curse and clapped a hand over his mouth. He did _not_ need a detention. "Sorry, sir. I _meant_ , it's been the password for months. Sir. Sorry, Professor."

Instead of getting angry with Draco for swearing, Professor Snape appeared oddly concerned. Perhaps he had just been visiting Draco's parents. Whenever Snape spoke with the Malfoys, he always grew inexplicably protective of Draco. His usual sneer would be replaced with the strained look of constipation and the greasy man would fawn all over Draco.

"Draco—"

Draco gave Snape a sly smile. "Professor, have you been round to see my father, by chance?" Draco crossed his arms and gave the man a knowing look.

Professor Snape's eyes widened in horror. "What?" he gasped.

The smile fell from Draco's face. That was not the reaction he had expected. Snape was getting on his nerves. Draco sighed. "Sir, please. The password?"

Professor Snape finally seemed to snap out of his trance. He pulled himself up to his full height and glared at Draco. "Mr. Malfoy. The password to the Slytherin dorms is _"Carpere Mortem_."

Draco looked to the side and mouthed the words quietly. It sounded familiar, but— "Sir, when—?"

"Mr. Malfoy." Snape took a deep breath, the hardened glare slipping from his greasy face. "That has been the password since the start of the year—"

Draco shook his head. "But—"

"The password," Snape continued, "has not been _Atropa Belladonna_ since the Triwizard Tournament."

The Triwizard Tournament. In fourth year. Fuck.

Draco could feel his defenses slipping as the horrors of the past year began to rush back to him. His mother, the Dark Lord, Azkaban, Potter, Dumbledore . . .

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and resurrected his shield. Fourth year. _Fourth Year_. Triwizard Tournament? That's right. That's right. Draco was the Hogwarts' Frontman with every other person falling into step behind him. Crabbe and Goyle were his guileless wingmen, Marietta Edgecombe, a surprising Ravenclaw supporter, helped with Interhouse Affairs by dealing _Potter Stinks_ badges and helping Draco spread rumors about Potter around campus and in the _Daily Prophet_ , Pansy Parkinson was the Slytherin First Lady and spent a solid year staining her nightgowns with tea and making Draco clean the delicate fabric without magic. . . So many directionless students and Draco as their fucking king.

Something about this was not right. Draco could see that in Snape's face, but fuck it. He was a King. King Draco.

_Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye . . ._

Draco flinched. _Prince_. He was a prince. Prince Draco. Pureblood prince.

Draco snapped his eyes opened and smirked at Snape. "Of course. Silly of me," he conceded and turned from the man. The looks the Professor was giving him were creeping him out. _"Carpere . . ."_ Draco faltered.

"Mortem," Snape supplied.

Draco did not look back at him. _"Carpere mortem,"_ he muttered quickly and all but ran into the Common Room, away from Professor Snape. The last thing he needed was Snape telling his father that Draco was acting like a loon.

Draco tossed his head to the side and strolled briskly into the Common Room. His usual study group was lounging with their usual textbooks and tea. Blaise fixed him with his usual scowl. Crabbe and Goyle looked up from their _Good Grammar for Gullible Gits_ book. Crabbe offered Draco a small smile. Goyle looked over to Blaise, noticed his scowl and changed his dumbfounded look to match Zabini's.

Draco gave a wide, devilish grin and flung his schoolbag across the floor. It slid over the stone surface, crashing to a halt near a fire poker. "Why so tense, boys?" he drawled, aggressively.

Millicent was seated on a couch facing the others with her back to Draco. Draco approached quickly from behind and, in one, smooth leap, propelled himself over the back of the couch, landing directly in Millicent's lap with his feet on top of her books and parchment.

Millicent shrieked and shoved at him, but Draco laughed and wrapped his arms around her neck, giving the large woman a coquettish wink.

"Shove off, Malfoy!" she yelled. Draco put his forehead to hers and wiggled his eyebrows.

"I rather think _you_ should shove _over_ , Millie," he purred. Draco could hear the clatter of a teacup in a saucer behind him, but forged on. "You may have a deliciously curvy body, my dear, but that's no reason to take up the whole sofa."

Millicent's mouth dropped open, unsure of whether to be flattered or offended.

Draco hummed seductively and leaned into her ear. "Although, I'm quite comfy where I am. I think I might stay, if you don't mind." He bounced playfully on the expanse of her thighs and let his eyelashes fall in a way that his mirror insisted was irresistible. "What'dyou say, Mill? It's bloody cold outside and you," he winked again, "are bloody hot."

Millicent returned his advances with a shrewd look, but she didn't push him off.

He raised his eyebrows at her and hummed. She raised her eyebrows back, then looked up at the others with an amused and helpless expression on her face.

Pansy's voice cut through loudly. "What are you doing, Draco?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Jealous, Pans?" he asked, then turned and threw her cocky grin. "There's plenty of room, right Millie? If we just—" Draco reached out a foot and slowly knocked all of Millicent's school supplies to the floor, "make a little room, all the girls can get a little Malfoy." Draco threw his head back and laughed, then elbowed Millicent and gave a devious cat purr.

She looked at Pansy, who looked unsure of whether to be amused or concerned.

"Eh, Millie?" Draco chided and purred again, continuing this exchange until Millicent snorted with laughter.

"Tosser," she laughed.

"Mmm," he said.

Blaise cleared his throat, as though he was about to say something, when Draco sprawled dramatically over Millicent's lap and let out a loud, satisfied sigh. He dipped his head further over the side of the sofa until he was face to upside-down face with Goyle. "Oi! How now, Goyle? You cheeky duck," Draco reached out and pinched Goyle's fat cheek.

Goyle, appearing confused, looked to Crabbe for answers. Crabbe shrugged and looked to Draco for answers. Draco slithered forward and somersaulted onto the floor, landing in a heap on his minions' grammar book.

Pansy bit back a smile. "You great oaf. You're speaking again, then?"

Draco didn't want to think about what that meant, so he beckoned her over from the floor.

"Come pet my hair, Pansy. I'm all stressed out. Professor Snape is acting like a big weirdo."

She snorted.

"He's not the only one acting like a weirdo," he heard someone mutter, which was followed by uncomfortable laughter.

Draco smirked. "That snide comment better have come from Millie." Draco pointed an accusing finger in the air and gestured to the expanse of the room. "The rest of you cunts won't get away with treating a Malfoy so impolitely."

Pansy dropped down beside Draco and took his head into her lap. He blinked up at her sweetly and smiled.

"Pansy, dear." Draco fluttered his eyelashes. "Pet me."

Pansy smiled at him adoringly, though suspicion still marred her features. "Of course, Draco, darling," she purred. Pansy grasped both sides of his face and bent down low to whisper to him. "Draco, are you on something?" The words were nearly silent. Only Draco could hear.

He smiled softly at her and held her gaze. "No, Pans. I'm not."

She let her eyes comb his features and then, seemingly satisfied, she leaned closer and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Okay."

"Parkinson, what the hell are you doing!" Draco could hear Blaise seething. Whatever. Prick was just jealous.

"Zabini, take Mill," Draco murmured imperiously through Pansy's blonde curls. "She's all alone on that big couch, mate."

Draco could hear the sound of a teacup hitting a saucer again and wondered if dramatic Blaise only picked up the cup so that he could slam it down again. "I don't take orders from fucking _Malfoys_."

Pansy sat back with a startled gasp.

Draco snickered. "Never thought you did, Zabini. Although," he groaned as he stretched lasciviously in Pansy's lap, "it might be in your best interest to reconsider your loyalties."

Draco smirked and settled back into Pansy's lap. "Pansy, pet me. Goyle, go keep that voluptuous vixen warm."

Goyle looked over to Crabbe, who shrugged, seemingly giving him the permission he needed to follow Draco's orders. Goyle stood and lumbered over to the couch, plopping down beside Millicent.

Millicent let out an exasperated huff of air. "Gregory," she gritted out, cordially, with a nod.

Goyle offered her a small smile. "Millicent." he nodded back. "That's a nice hair clip." He bent forward and began to gather Millicent's books and parchment into a neat pile. Draco noticed Goyle's flushed face and grinned. Draco reached forward and grabbed Goyle's ear, yanking him closer. Goyle let out a yelp and dropped the books, falling to his knees beside Draco.

Draco flashed Goyle a huge, conspiratorial grin and waggled his eyebrows. "Goyle, you _rogue_!" Goyle blushed and bit back a smile, peeling Draco's fingers off of his ears. A thought occurred to Draco. "Millicent!" Draco cried and sat upright, knocking Pansy off-balance. "Goyle's hopeless in grammar—"

"Hey!" Goyle protested. Crabbe snickered lightly.

"Crabbe," Draco commanded, feeling high on the power of bossing everyone around and manipulating the entire room. He was in his prime. "Fetch Goyle's _History of Magic_ paper and have Millie look it over with him."

Draco dropped back into Pansy's plush lap with a sigh.

"Uh, Draco," Goyle mumbled. "We don't take _History of Magic_ anymore . . . "

No?

Ah, well. Draco waved his hand around in the air. "You know what I mean. An essay. Any essay. They're all the bloody same coming from you lot, anyway. Ten points just for putting your name on the top and the other fifty-five from your idiot cousin's decade-old reserves."

Draco heard laughter and smiled at the sweet sound as Pansy dug her fingers into Draco's scalp.

"Yuck, Draco!" Pansy shrieked and yanked her fingers out of his hair.

"Mmm?" he murmured, allowing his eyes to fall contentedly closed.

"When did you start slicking your hair back again?" Pansy wiped her sticky hands on the carpet, then shrugged and stuck them back in Draco's greasy hair.

Draco could hear Blaise and Theo snickering. "Ponce," one of them muttered.

Draco cleared his throat. "When, Pansy dear? When I realized that, done correctly, it can make a person appear older and cause beautiful, busty women, such as Madame Rosmerta of the Three Broomsticks, to give me whatever I like."

Theo scoffed. "Care to put your money where your fat mouth is?"

Draco snorted. "To benefit you? Not likely."

Blaise spoke anyway. "You've been talking a real big game in here tonight, Malfoy."

Draco yawned. "Those are the only games I play, Zabini."

"Really," Blaise murmured. "Then go on, Malfoy. Tomorrow is a Hogsmeade trip. You think you can get Madame Rosmerta to sell anything more than Butterbeer to a group of Hogwarts students? Prove it, you arrogant fuck."

Some thought, some _memory_ began pushing its way through Draco's pleasant haze of mental comfort. The thought was not one Draco wished to acknowledge, but it also held the answer to Blaise's question. His subconscious picked the necessary information from the thought without summoning the memory. Draco suddenly erupted with loud, wild laughter. "Do I think," he choked out, "that Madame Rosmerta will—" he broke off with another high-pitched giggle, " _sell_ to me, Zabini?" Draco nearly had tears in his eyes.

"You're full of shit, Malfoy."

"Ha!" Draco barked out and sat up again. Zabini was fingering his wand with a contemplative sneer. "Zabini," he said in a cold voice, "I can get that bitch to do whatever I want."

No one said a word. Draco held Blaise in a baleful gaze, neither wanting to look away.

"Prove it," sneered Blaise.

"What's in it for me, Zabini?" Draco folded his hands across his chest and felt a wet chunk of hair drop down between his eyebrows. Never leaving Blaise's eyes, Draco tried to blow the hair out of the way, but the lock was too greasy and had already plastered itself to his skin. He relented and then raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"Me," said Blaise.

Draco looked unimpressed. "You?" he replied. Draco absently wondered why Blaise was being such a shite to him tonight. Blaise usually went along with whatever he said. Draco had apparently offended him, but Zabini needed to learn his place. Zabini certainly had a big ego if he thought he could speak to Draco in the tone he was using.

Blaise looked over to Theo, who nodded, then back again at Draco. "Slytherin."

Draco snorted. "Slytherin. I already _have_ Slytherin, Zabini." What was with these arseholes?

Blaise's mouth curled into a nasty smile. "Hate to break it to you, _Draco_ ," Blaise dragged his name out like it was a joke, "but—"

"Fine," Pansy interrupted him. Draco started to protest, _he already had Slytherin,_ but she elbowed him in the ribs. "He'll do it. But not because he _needs_ Slytherin, you arrogant shit, but because I, for one, need to get pissed after this bloody bizarre display," she gestured around the room, but mostly at Draco. "And after this whole bloody, bizarre school term," she added, under her breath.

"Hear, hear," muttered Crabbe.

Draco smiled and burrowed into Pansy's lap. Draco felt warm and young and in control. "Whatever, fine."

Pansy dragged her hands out of Draco's hair and ran them over his chest. He moaned in comfort until he felt her fingers snag something.

"What the hell is this?" she asked. Draco could sense her shadow over his face as she leaned in for a closer look. He reached up lazily and fingered the badge.

"A badge," he grinned, smugly. "I made it."

Draco felt Pansy reach forward and unhook it from his shirt. "Uh, what the hell is this for?" she asked.

"I have more if you want some," Draco offered. "I think we should get all of Slytherin house to wear them. House unity and all that," he snickered. The badges were fucking genius.

"I don't get it," Draco heard Crabbe say. "Why would we wear these?"

Draco looked up to see the badge levitated between Blaise and Theo, who were poking at it, looking confused and disgusted.

Blaise snatched the badge out of the air and used his wand to fling it back at Draco. Draco flinched as the badge flew through the air and fastened itself on the knot of his tie. "You wear it, arsehole."

Draco pulled his head back and tried to look at the badge on his neck. He noticed that it looked a bit rusty and old, which was odd, but the badge was too close to his face to get a good look at it.

" _Cedric Diggory Stinks_?" Crabbe asked. "That's kind of in poor taste, Draco. It doesn't even make sense."

Draco's eyes widened as he struggled to glimpse the words. "No, no, it's—" he tapped the badge with his wand and the letters rearranged themselves. "It's not supposed to say . . ."

From the corner of his eye, Draco could see that the badge had changed.

" _Support Potter?_ " Pansy raised her eyebrows, clearly amused.

"Ah! No! It's not—it's broken! Must be—this is not what it's supposed to say!" Draco stuttered, as he shook and tapped the badge to try and fix it.

Blaise and Theo roared with laughter as the badge continued to flash between saying _Cedric Diggory Stinks_ and _Support Potter_. Draco grumbled and reached up to take the badge off, but it wouldn't open.

It was stuck.

No, not stuck. Spelled onto his tie. Which, Draco found as he pulled on the fabric, was spelled onto his neck. "Bloody—fucking! Blaise!" Draco growled. "You bastard!"

Blaise let out a long, low laugh, his dark eyes alight with malicious glee.

Draco began to panic. The idea of anything wrapped around his neck was enough to make him feel strangled and claustrophobic. The fact that the conspicuous badge allowed him one of two humiliating messages to display made him feel even worse. His barely suppressed rage began to rise again like bile in his throat. Zabini's antics had gone far enough. Draco jumped to his feet and rounded on Blaise with his wand pointed at the git's throat. Blaise, of course, stood and met him with his wand casually pointed back at Draco.

"Take. It. Off." Draco commanded through gritted teeth.

Blaise laughed lightly. "But, I think it demonstrates your true affinity so well." He drew his hand in an elegant arch. " _Support Potter,"_ he said, grandly.

Potter. _Potter_.

Draco shook his head. Focus. Control.

"What are you insinuating, Zabini?"

"It's not what _I'm_ insinuating that should concern you, Malfoy." Blaise tilted his head to the side, thoughtfully. "I'd have thought that sad little vow of silence would have given the great Draco Malfoy ample time to listen to what people were saying about him, but I guess not. Perhaps singing for mummy was a bit too traumatizing for our little Death Eater?"

Blaise flashed Draco a huge, cruel smile, then looked over at Theo, who was sniggering under his hand.

"My father told me you have special talents, Malfoy," said Theo. "It seems you've been holding out on us."

Draco felt his throat tighten and he swallowed. He heard pleading shrieks in his mind, saw tangled blonde hair thrashing wildly. Then he blinked hard and shoved the thoughts away. They weren't real. If Draco did not acknowledge them and they were in the past, then they didn't have to be real. Whatever Blaise was saying, Draco was not going to listen. In fact, he didn't even know what Blaise was talking about.

"Draco, what's he talking about?" Pansy asked, stepping beside Draco and firmly grasping his upper arm. Draco unconsciously leaned into her for support, then let out a triumphant laugh.

He didn't have to remember it if he didn't want to! Ha!

"No idea," Draco drawled, then turned to Theo and placed one, cool finger under the boy's chin. "Aw, Theo Nott. Typical, misinformed cogs like your groveling father tend to become almost pathological in their desperate spread of lies." Draco stroked Theo's chin then pushed him in the chest with one finger, enjoying what little effort it took for the ugly fucker to stumble backwards. "Sad, really. But expected."

"Fuck you, _Malfoy_ ," Theo spat.

Draco shrugged then turned back to Blaise. "As for whatever you are insinuating about my true affinities, I could care less. I feel no need to defend myself to trash. Let's just say," Draco took a dramatic pause, "those of us in the upper echelon, unlike your cowering families, realize that there is more to be seen than what meets the eye." Draco slowly reached his wand forward and poked Theo in the eye. Theo flinched and slapped Draco's wand away, looking murderous. Draco laughed. "And you'd be well to recognize that sooner rather than later, Zabini. Now remove this fucking badge."

"Tut, tut, Draco. Since you're unconcerned about your personal appearances, then I should think you'd have no problem wearing it. After all, there is more to be seen than what meets the eye, correct?" Blaise stepped closer to Draco. "Tomorrow, win the bet, and I'll take it off," he hissed. "But only because you asked so nicely."

Draco smirked. He knew that this was the best he was going to get and losing his cool around Blaise would only make things worse. "Fine. I'm going to bed. See you in the morning, Pansy. " Draco lowered his wand and turned to leave. "We'll go to Hogsmeade together. Three Broomsticks at one o'clock, boys. Pansy, you and I will stop by Cunningham Coffee first for a mocha."

"Cunningham Coffee is closed, Draco."

"Fine. Whatever. We'll figure it out." Draco turned and headed toward his room in a haze of confusion, shoving down all thoughts that threatened to flood his mind, desperate to remain in a stable state. He knew it was a precarious balance and that the minute his defenses slipped, he would drown in whatever hopeless situation he was hiding from.

Draco plopped down onto his bed, removed all of his clothes except his damn necktie and badge, pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, and closed his eyes.

…...

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Get back here, mate!" Ron's jubilant cry pierced Harry's depressive cloud and threw him violently into Common Room scrutiny. Harry stopped walking and turned grudgingly toward his best friend. Ron's eyes were wild. "Love bites! You sly dog! You sly dog, Harry! Who's the bird?"

Ron galloped over to Harry and yanked the collar of his shirt down, revealing what must have been a trail of bruises down the side of his neck. Ron gasped loudly and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Why, Harry Potter, you _scoundrel_!"

Harry's ears burned as he felt the eyes of every student in the Common Room turn towards him. He heard laughter and cheering and an overwhelming amount of suggestive comments, though they all sounded like Irish slang, so it may have just been Seamus. Harry shrugged Ron's hands off his collar. Couldn't they tell he was miserable? Were his friends really that blind?

"Ron, please," Harry said. "It's—I really don't want to talk about it."

Ron looked at Harry with concern, then nodded. "Oh," he said loudly. "It's like that, huh?" He patted Harry on the shoulder. "Don't let her get to you, mate. Women! Difficult bloody creatures." The boys in the room all grunted their agreement and support. The girls all clicked their tongues in distaste. Harry gave a simple, curt nod and a "right," and all but ran to his dorm.

He threw himself dramatically onto his bed, then rolled his eyes at his own idiocy. It was bad enough that he had let himself get emotionally trampled, but there was no way in hell he was going to pout in his room over Draco Malfoy. No fucking way.

He frowned and crossed his arms.

He was not going to sit there and sulk over that selfish, cowardly Death Eater. Really! Malfoy was mentally deranged. He hadn't even spoken in a week, he was addicted to Calming Draughts and Sleeping Charms, and _he_ had the nerve to be disgusted by _Harry?_ Harry should be disgusted by _him!_

In fact, Harry _was_ disgusted by him. Malfoy had initiated all of it. _Harry_ should have been the one to turn tail and run, to knee bloody Malfoy in the groin and see how much he liked it. Harry should go spread rumours about how Malfoy assaulted _him_ before Malfoy ran off to tell everyone that Harry was some sort of shirt-lifter who took advantage of ill students with incapacitated minds.

Draco Malfoy should be sulking about Harry! But Harry was sure that he wasn't. Why was he sure? Because the world was fucking unfair, that was why. Because everything fucking sucked.

Harry picked up a box of chocolates from some stupid girl and hurled it across the dorm room. The heart shaped box caught the corner of Ron's bureau and burst open, sending chocolates through the air that landed with soft plops all about the room.

Harry frowned, Accioed one of the chocolates and took a bite.

Fuck Malfoy. He'd humiliated Harry for the last time.

"Uck!" Harry gagged and spit the chocolate over the side of the bed. "Coconut!"

He threw the rest of the chocolate across the room and crossed his arms again with a huff.

Everything fucking sucked.

…...

Draco listened to the static darkness around him. His roommates had gone to bed hours ago. Without casting a Tempus Charm, the general hot stillness that surrounded Draco told him that it was around four o'clock in the morning. Two more hours until Draco would arise for his day in Hogsmeade.

The adrenaline that accompanied the excitement of his new coping method, extreme denial, had finally begun to wear off and Draco felt exhausted. Every time his eyes rolled up or he began dozing off to sleep he would see Dumbledore's face in his mind or hear his mother's screams and he would jerk awake, strangled by his _Potter_ -badge-necktie and then he'd remind himself that he didn't have to accept any of those things as real. As long as Draco consciously rejected those thoughts, then they weren't true. What _was_ true was the fact that he couldn't sleep and the fact that he had a bloody, buggering noose around his neck.

Draco knew that this day, this Hogsmeade trip, held significance, but it was not anything that Draco wanted to concern himself with, so he focused his mind on counting gnomes as they jumped over a fence. Draco hated gnomes and counted to 334 until he was completely pissed off that he couldn't wipe the image of a stupid gnome-face out of his mind and that, despite prickling exhaustion, he was still wide awake.

Draco pulled himself out of bed to go to the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and jumped back, horrified. He hardly recognized himself. Making a face at his reflection, he crept closer for a better look. "Merlin," he muttered, disgusted. "What the hell is happening to you?"

Draco reached his hands up to push his gel-slickened greasy strands away from his face. He groaned when he realized that the gel had already caused his forehead to break out in spots. Worst of all, he had been too stupid to wash his hair or face before bed, so he knew he deserved it.

There were giant spots on his neck, too, he noticed, and peered in for a closer look. No, wait, those weren't spots. Those were . . . bruises? He shook his head in defeat. His body was shutting down on him. He was developing bruises on his skin where he hadn't even been injured!

Draco sighed. He may not have control of his body, he may not have control of his life, but he had control of his mind. That, Draco thought smugly, was still his.

Then he remembered those looks Professor Snape had given him in the corridor. What if . . . what if his mind _wasn't_ his? What if the Dark Lord had put Draco under the Imperius Curse? Oh God. What if… shit! What if none of this was real? What if none of it was happening and he was locked up in St. Mungo's right now experiencing vivid hallucinations?

What if his whole life was a hallucination? Magic! _What the fuck is magic?_ Draco was probably some hopped-up Muggle named Frank Mulberry who'd invented the entire Wizard World in his drug-addled mind! If drugs were even real, like Harry Potter said! _If Harry Potter was even real!_

"Oh my God!" Draco cried suddenly and fell to his knees with his head in his hands as his suppressed memories broke free and rushed him. It was real. He was no Frank Mulberry. This hell was his reality. These memories were, oh _God . . ._

Dumbledore. Potter. Oh fuck—God! There were only hours left, now. Hours.

Draco felt his throat close up and he knew he couldn't hold back anymore. He choked out a Locking and a Silencing Charm then let out a wail that would have woken the entire Slytherin dorm.

"I HATE THIS!" he shrieked, thrashing his leg out on the floor and kicking over a wastebasket. "I HATE THIS! I HATE MY BLOODY— _FUCKING!_ " Draco shook with exhaustion and felt the nausea of a sleepless night begin to rise up in his throat. He moaned loudly and cried, knowing that no one could hear him. He dragged himself back up to the sink and retched, spitting stringy gobs of bile into the sink as he cried and gagged.

Spent, he leaned forward to rest his cheek against the cool metal faucets of the sink. "I want to die," he whispered to the drain, squeezing his eyes shut in anguish. "Please," he begged it a bit louder. "Just fucking let me die."

"Pretty blonde boy!" a nasal voice sang into his ear. Draco jumped in shock and stumbled away from the sink, tripping over an old, blue trainer that had fallen out of the wastebasket. He caught himself on a toilet stall and looked wildly around the room.

"Who's here?" he hissed, gripping his wand tightly.

"Surely you don't want to die," the voice sang into his other ear. Draco flinched and batted at his ear to get the voice away. A voice. Oh shit. He was hearing voices. This was it, then. He'd lost it completely.

"Yes, Voice," Draco stated, deciding to play along with his psyche. "I most certainly _do_ want to die. In fact, you've just helped me make my decision. So thank you."

Draco spared a moment to mentally admonish himself. He knew better. He _was_ better. God, if his father could see him now: the destined-for-greatness Draco Malfoy, reduced to insanity, vomiting death pleas and conversing with voices in his head.

At the same time, nothing about it struck Draco as all that strange. In fact, the company came as a bit of a relief. Draco could hardly remember how he had ended up in the bathroom in the first place and the wanting-to-die talk could have quickly led somewhere . . . else . . . in his current state.

"But then you'll end up miserable, like me!" the female whined.

"HA! End up?" Draco fell into a fit of harsh laughter. " _End up miserable?_ This _is_ the end, Voice! And I'm fucking miserable. I can't even _imagine_ that your existence, or non-existence, as it may be, is anywhere _near_ as miserable as mine. Voice, I would take your place in a second."

"So, why don't you?"

Draco buried his head in his hands and groaned helplessly. "Because! Because, Voice. I have responsibilities. You don't have any responsibilities. You're nothing! You're a bloody _sound!_ It's easy to think you're miserable when you aren't real."

"How would you know?" she sniffed, sounding offended.

Draco felt sorry for a moment, then scoffed at his foolishness. It was bad enough he was talking to imaginary friends. Did he really need to get sympathetic? He rubbed at his burning eyes. "Ten minutes ago I wasn't real! Ten minutes ago I was Frank fucking Mulberry of Bogmire!"

"But you're real now?"

"Of _course_ I'm real now, you bint!" Draco wrinkled his eyebrows in thought. "I think."

"So then you must not think you're miserable since you're real."

Draco frowned and took a controlling breath. "You listen to me, Voice. Ten minutes ago I convinced myself I was a mentally unstable hallucinating Muggle man who invented the Wizarding World in my head. Now I'm talking to a disembodied Voice. Don't fuck with me. Don't fucking twist my words around any more than my fucked mind has already twisted them. I swear to Merlin. I'll completely lose it, if I haven't already."

Draco paused for a moment and listened to the silence. Had he hurt the voice's feelings? Where was she? "Voice?"

Draco did not hear an answer.

"Voice?" he asked again. He inexplicably felt on the verge of tears that he had lost his companion. He should have felt relieved that he was no longer hearing voices, but instead he just felt forgotten. "Voice?" he asked quietly. "I'm sorry if I was short with you. I've having the worst day of my life and the worst is yet to come. Are you still here?"

The lights in the bathroom suddenly flared to life and Draco jerked his gaze upward to see a ghost of a girl, a few years younger than himself, with pigtails and glasses. She was dressed in an old-fashion Hogwarts uniform and looked as irritating as her voice sounded. She had her hands on her hips.

"You're a ghost!" Draco cried in relief. "Oh, thank God." It was not lost on him how odd it was to be relieved to see a ghost but, alas, that was where Draco found himself.

"What's wrong, blonde boy? You can tell me," she wheedled, gliding closer to him. "I'm a _very_ good listener." She reached out a cold, ghostly hand and tried to hold Draco's.

The ice cold of the ghost was refreshing against Draco's exhausted, feverish panic. "Voice, put your ghost hand on my forehead for a second," he commanded, too tired to consider the strangeness of the request.

The ghost gave a huge smile and Draco felt the numbing, ice cold headache of what felt like reverse brain freeze. He relaxed, relishing in the feel.

"Call me Myrtle," she said.

"'M Draco," he sighed, shivering at her ice touch.

"Draco," she said, thoughtfully. "You poor thing. You can tell me all about it."

He opened his eyes and winced. The headache had morphed into the blinding pain of a migraine. "You can stop now, Myrtle," he mumbled. Draco took a step back and began rubbing his forehead. Perhaps he should have just rested his head against a cold surface like a normal person.

Myrtle pulled her hand back and looked sad. "Sorry," she said.

"It's fine."

"Sometimes I forget that I'm dead."

Draco nodded solemnly, fighting the urge to ask her how she died. It was very poor manners to ask a ghost about their death.

"People don't like to touch dead people," Myrtle added.

"I didn't mind at first," Draco said, sitting down. "It felt good, kind of." Draco glanced up at her and saw that her face was alight with a smile.

"Really?" she snuck in closer to Draco and curled up beside him.

Draco widened his eyes. Shit. He was giving this girl the wrong the idea. "I have a girlfriend," he lied, and then felt stupid. Why was he lying to some ghost girl anyway? What was the point?

She gave him a suspicious grin. "You do _not_ have a girlfriend, Draco Malfoy," she said. He gasped. She knew his name? "You broke up with Pansy Parkinson last year, right after the OWLS. Right after _your_ OWLs, I should say. She'd had the flu and had to retake her Transfiguration OWL exam a week after everyone else. She probably got a Troll!"

Draco scowled, too shocked by the information to consider the unlikely source. "She got an _E_."

Myrtle shrugged. "Still. You broke her heart. And you _don't_ have a girlfriend."

"So? It certainly doesn't free me up for an eavesdropping dead girl like _you_ ," he growled. Why was he getting so irritated with her? She was just trying to help.

"There, there," she soothed. "I know you're only taking your anger out on me because you're a volatile little wanker."

" _Excuse me?_ "

She giggled. "That's what Harry Potter says."

Draco's eyes flashed at her. "Does he, now? Did he also mention that he is a bloody stalker who takes advantage of people when they're at their lowest for personal gain?"

Myrtle widened her eyes. "Oh, no, he didn't—"

"Did _Harry Potter_ mention the fact that I asked him, repeatedly, to leave me alone but that he kept coming back anyway, accusing me of all sorts of things, telling me that I'm evil, that I'm a coward, that I'm worthless?" Draco knew he was laying it on thick, but it felt good to elicit sympathy from Myrtle and make Potter look like the bad guy for once. He dropped his head into his hands. "Maybe he's right."

Myrtle wrinkled her face in sympathy. "Oh, no. You poor thing. He had no right to say those terrible things to you."

"But it's true. I am a bloody coward. I don't know how I can do it, Myrtle! Tomorrow I—." He stopped. She may have been dead, but she also had a big mouth.

"You what?"

Draco looked at her and shook his head. "I can't tell you. I can't tell anyone."

She clucked, disapprovingly. "You're all alone. Like me."

Draco let out a short laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."

…...

"Harry?" asked Ginny as she strolled alongside him, her ponytail bobbing up and down like a, well, like a pony's tail.

Harry, Ginny, Ron and Hermione were strolling through Hogsmeade, heading toward the Three Broomsticks. It was one of those sunny, ice cold days that Hermione always said were her favorite. Harry had never seen the lure, but looking at the sun glinting off of Ginny's red hair and her rosy cheeks and red nose, he thought maybe the weather was okay.

"Yeah, Gin?" he said.

"Since we're friends and all, and we're both going, d'you want to go to Slughorn's Christmas party with me?"

Harry raised his eyebrows. He hadn't expected that. "But, aren't you going with Dean?"

A dark look crossed Ginny's face. "Definitely not."

Ron threw Harry a warning glance and tilted his head, indicating that Harry look behind him.

Lavender was clinging onto Dean's elbow and giggling like a mad hyena as she tried to force him to take a bite out of a snowball. "Come on, Tommy-womakins. Open wide for the Hogwarts Express!" Dean eyed her warily and opened his mouth slightly. Lavender pulled the snowball out of his face and jammed her tongue in his mouth. Dean stumbled back looking startled. Lavender winked. "Chugga, chugga _choo choo!_ "

Harry gave Ron a horrified look. "Yikes," he whispered. Poor bloke.

Ginny tugged on Harry's arm, impatiently. "Well?"

Harry grinned at her. It would certainly make things easier. He was wondering who he was going to take with him to this damn party and, of course, he had to go and make nice with old Sluggy. "Sure, Gin. Sounds fun."

She flashed him an enormous smile and her cheeks turned even more pink. "Cool! Cool." She turned to Hermione. "Hermione, while we're in the village, would you mind checking out Gladrags with me? I have some birthday money left and Hannah mentioned that they had a rack of used gowns for under five galleons!"

Harry frowned. "Ginny-you don't need to buy a whole new dress. Just wear something you already have. You'll look great."

She scowled. "I'm not buying it for _you_. Sometimes a girl needs something _different_ in her wardrobe," she sniffed. "I'm tired of the same old sh—"

"Ginny!" Ron scolded.

"Shenanigans. Dresses. Shenanigan-dresses. Don't tell Mum."

Hermione laughed. "He won't," she assured, giving Ron a light elbow to the stomach. "And yeah, let's go now. I'm not in the mood for Butterbeer, anyway."

Ginny grinned and linked arms with Hermione and the two girls gave a quick wave to the others and strolled off towards Gladrags Wizardwear.

"You know, Harry. Maybe I should go ask the girls to pick me up a new pair of socks, since mine are all covered in the remains of your chocolate temper tantrum from last night."

Harry gave him an annoyed look.

"Are you going to—"

" _No_. I'm not talking about it. Ev—oof!" Harry stumbled forward into Ron as he was shoved to the side. He looked up into the smirking, sneering face of Draco Malfoy who was flanked on either side by Crabbe and Goyle with a handful of Slytherins standing guard behind him. Harry closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself. This had to be some sort of cosmic joke. Harry briefly contemplated running or vomiting. What could Malfoy _possibly_ have to say to him?

Harry braced himself for declarations of molestation and sexual assault.

"Well, well, well," Malfoy drawled. "What have we got here?" He cracked his knuckles and grinned at the prospect of confrontation. Nothing on his face or in his demeanor even hinted at what happened the night before.

"Uh… _what?_ " Harry asked, disbelieving. He could feel Ron tense with anger beside him and prayed that Ron kept his mouth shut for once. He just wanted this to be over.

"If it isn't Potty and the Weasel off for a romp in Hogsmeade."

This was so bizarre, Harry almost wanted to laugh. Had Malfoy completely lost it? Why was he acting like nothing had happened between them, nothing at all?

Harry made a strange face. "Yeah . . ." he said slowly. Harry looked at him closely. Malfoy's eyes were fever bright, his hands were shaking and his hair, though slicked back with gel, had come undone in sloppy pieces that stuck straight up in the air or fell onto his face. His bulging Slytherin scarf was wrapped tightly over the same spot on his throat several times. Malfoy appeared to stumble forward, but Crabbe shielded him so quickly that Harry couldn't tell.

"Whatsamatter Potty? Cat got your tongue?" Malfoy and his Slytherins laughed, even though it wasn't funny.

Harry could feel his thinning patience tighten like a bowstring, ready to snap. "No," he said through gritted teeth, staring up at Malfoy. "Not a _cat._ "

Malfoy chuckled and rubbed his hands together. "Ooh, something else, then? Do tell!" he asked, appearing completely oblivious.

Harry looked at Crabbe and Goyle, their fat faces set with unwavering determination, but it was Pansy Parkinson who caught Harry's eye. Without meaning to, Harry threw her a questioning glance. At first, Parkinson sneered at him. Then she closed her eyes and huffed out an exasperated breath. When she opened them, she looked right at Harry and slightly shook her head. Her face confirmed what Harry was thinking. As usual, there was something off about Draco Malfoy and, for once, Harry was going to have the good sense to back away.

"Um, no," Harry replied. "Right. Nice talking to you Malfoy." He grabbed Ron's elbow and began dragging him towards the Three Broomsticks. Ron was grumbling about going back, but Harry squeezed his arm tighter.

"Have fun with your boyfriend!" Malfoy called out, cheerfully, making kissing noises. The Slytherins laughed and Harry dug his nails into Ron's arm.

"Ow-fuck Harry!" Ron yelped, snatching his arm back.

"Sorry," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"That was some restraint you showed back there, Harry," Ron said.

"Yeah, well," Harry grumbled.

"You know what I think?" Ron asked, opening the door of Three Broomsticks and holding it for Harry. "I think he's got that Muggle mental disease that Hermione read about in a medical book."

"What? Brain damage?"

Ron shook his head and took a seat at a wooden booth in the back corner of the pub. "No, mate. It's called bi-pole-or disorder. Sometimes you're depressed, like the git was when he wouldn't talk for a week, and then you're manic, which is like really hyper and aggressive."

Harry gave Ron a rueful grin. He wished he could write off Malfoy's behavior as a disorder beyond his control, but he knew this was _all_ Malfoy. "He certainly fits the bill," Harry said.

Ron nodded, pleased that Harry agreed with him. "I know!"

"What can I get you boys?" Madame Rosmerta asked, leaning forward to wipe down the sticky spots on their table with a wet rag. Several inches of cleavage were propped up and on display. Ron waggled his eyebrows and tried to exchange a salacious leer with Harry. Harry rolled his eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"A pitcher of Butterbeer, please," Harry said, politely. She grinned at him as Ron continued to ogle her breasts.

"Aren't you sweet?" she asked Harry with a wink, then turned back to the bar.

"Wow," Ron mouthed, wide eyed. "I mean, Hermione's got 'em and all, breasts I mean. I mean, all girls have 'em, Harry, but, some of them are just, you know," he cupped his hands and gestured in the air. "Big."

Harry cringed. "Ron. I know we're mates, but please don't ever talk to me about Hermione's—. Er. Just. Don't."

Ron grinned at the ceiling with a dreamy look in his eyes. "They're lovely, Harry. You wouldn't picture it under the robes and all, but—"

"Ron!"

"Just lovely. Perfect size. Not big like Rosmerta's, but," Ron adjusted the size of his cupped hands to something considerably smaller and a bit more hand-held. "Lovely."

"Here you go boys," Madame Rosmerta thankfully interrupted and placed the pitcher and two large glasses between the boys. "Enjoy!"

"Thank you," they replied in unison.

Ron reached forward and poured them each a glass. "I don't know about _you_ , Harry, but I intend to suck back as much of this stuff as I possibly can."

Harry shrugged. "It's a plan."

Ron laughed and they knocked their glasses together, before tilting their heads back and swallowing the entire contents.

Ron refilled their glasses as the door to The Three Broomsticks burst open and Draco Malfoy and his idiot cronies stumbled into the pub. Malfoy stood at the forefront, rubbing his hands together like the caricature of someone "about to get things done."

"Bloody fucking hell," Harry seethed. Ron shoved back Harry's refilled glass, eyeing the Slytherins warily. Harry took the glass and drained it as he did the first.

"Just don't look at him, Harry," Ron said. "Malfoy is obviously in the throes of what Muggles call a mental 'mania.'"

"Definitely," Harry agreed.

"I think he'd pick a fight with himself if he could."

Harry almost laughed. Ron had no idea how true that statement was.

Malfoy confidently swaggered up to the bar and hopped onto a barstool. The rest of the Slytherins gathered around him as he pushed his fingers over his hair. "Watch and learn," he announced, his voice pitched higher than usual. "It's _all_ in the hair!"

Malfoy clapped his hands twice in a rude attempt to get Madame Rosmerta's attention. She stopped what she was doing and looked directly at him.

Harry noticed Malfoy's eyes widen slightly in something akin to fear, but a second later that look was replaced by his usual, cool over-confidence. "Rosie," he grinned at her, " _seven_ Firewhiskies, please."

Harry could see the Slytherins holding their breath and waiting for her response.

"Of course," she replied.

Malfoy sent a nasty smirk to Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, who were glaring at him. He turned back to the bar. "Oh, and Rosie?"

"Yes?"

"Leave the bottle, please."

"Of course." Madame Rosmerta walked off to get their drinks as Crabbe elbowed Malfoy in excitement. Malfoy lost his balance and grabbed the bar to keep from falling.

"Holy shit, Draco!" Crabbe cried.

Malfoy crossed his arms and leaned against Crabbe as if he were a backrest. "Told you arseholes. It's _all_ in the hair." He pushed an enormous pile of Galleons onto the bar table when Rosmerta returned with the drinks.

"Just keep them coming," he said. She nodded. Malfoy cast a quick spell on the drinks to make them look like water and changed the appearance of the Ogden's Old Firewhisky bottle into a water jug. "In case any professors come in," he said with a wink.

"To Draco's hair!" Parkinson cried. They all drank from their glasses.

"To Blaise Zabini, his fat mouth and his superiority complex!" Malfoy cried in a cheery voice, flashing a huge smile at Zabini who, Harry could see, was tightly gripping the wand in his pocket.

Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle drank. Parkinson exchanged glances with Millicent Bulstrode before taking a tentative sip. Harry could see a vein bulging in the side of Zabini's head as he clutched his drink in a death vice. Malfoy winked at Zabini, refilled his glass from the bottle and held it up in the air again.

"To Teddy Nott's father and his incredibly big ears, without which—" Malfoy was cut off when Nott grabbed a handful of scarf layers around Malfoy's neck and yanked him in close. Malfoy's eyes were wide, though a sarcastic smile still lingered on the corner of his lips.

"Don't fucking push it, _Malfoy_ ," Nott growled into his face.

"Zabini!" Malfoy cried. "I was promised Slytherin! I'm not sure I care for the way Theo is addressing me right now. Please remove him from my robes." Malfoy glanced at Zabini and flashed him an enormous, innocent smile. Zabini, never taking his calculating gaze off of Malfoy, stepped forward and placed a hand on Nott's shoulder. Nott shoved Malfoy, releasing his scarf and stepping away. Malfoy reeled backwards and nearly fell off his barstool, but Goyle shouldered him back up. Nott and Zabini were whispering heatedly as they walked along the bar to snag two seats that were several down from Malfoy.

"Thanks ever so, Zabini," Malfoy called down the bar to him. Parkinson opened her mouth as if to say something, but Malfoy cut her off. "Your undying loyalty is duly noted and greatly appreciated. Rosie!" Malfoy called to the bar maiden. "Make something extra special for my friend Blaise Zabini. Something like a . . . martini! Make him a Zabini Martini. An extra dirty martini with a twist of something lame, like the crust off an old Butterbeer bottle!"

"Draco . . ." Parkinson began.

"Oh, I'm only joking! Rosie? I'm just joking, Rosie. A Zabini Martini is just straight melted butter in a martini glass!" Malfoy let out an uproarious laugh and winked at Zabini. "And get one for my friend Nott over there. He's the one with the big ears just like his father. That's how they hear all the goings-on that don't concern them."

"Of course," Madame Rosmerta said.

"Draco, stop," Parkinson hissed.

"I swear to Merlin, Malfoy." Nott began to rise out of his seat, but Zabini pushed him back down.

Malfoy smirked. "Just joking again, boys." Malfoy called to the barmaid. "Just joking, Rosie!" She returned the stick of butter she was holding to the cooling cupboard. "Two regular, dirty martinis are fine for these two regular dirt-bags!"

Parkinson yanked his arm and he scowled at her as he downed his drink with his other arm and reached to refill. " _What?_ " he hissed.

Parkinson leaned in closely and whispered something into his ear. He frowned for a moment, then glanced over at Zabini and Nott with a calculating look. Malfoy looked back at Parkinson, brushed a greasy lock of hair from his face and returned to his drink.

Ron looked over at Harry. "What in bloody hell was that all about?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. He wasn't sure, but he didn't like it. Not one bit. First of all, Malfoy was not supposed to be drinking alcohol until January. Harry scowled inwardly at this harping motherly thought. Second of all, Malfoy was acting like, well, he was acting like he always acted. Or, at least, how he _used_ to act. And something about the way Zabini was looking at him indicated more than just a friendly verbal spat.

"And how do you reckon Malfoy got away with ordering _Firewhisky_?"Ron nearly shouted.

Harry shrugged. "His, um. His hair?"

Ron snorted into his hand, sending a spray of Butterbeer across the table. "His hair! Oh Merlin, Harry! Malfoy looks like such a tool!"

Harry Scourgified the mess and allowed himself a small grin. Malfoy _did_ look like a tool, but Harry didn't particularly like Ron saying it.

_Bloody hell, Harry. Don't start this up, again._

"It was certainly looking much more, uh, _clean_ without it slicked back like a bloody vampire's," Harry said.

Ron frowned. "That's just a myth, you know. Vampires aren't actually all that pale with the slick hair and the widow's peak. They just look like people. That's what's so scary. You can't even tell 'til they're biting your neck."

Harry nodded as if he cared. "Mmm." He poured himself another Butterbeer and took a long swallow.

"Speaking of biting necks . . ." Ron gave a conspicuous one-over of Harry's neck, then let his face spread into a leer.

" _No_ , Ron."

"Kidding, mate!"

…...

Two pitchers of Butterbeer later and Harry and Ron were in high spirits. The sting of Harry's stupidity the day before hurt much less when warm Butterbeer was sloshing around in his brain, melting the Three Broomsticks into a golden glow that was considerably nicer than when he was drinking alone in the Hogwarts corridors.

"Stop!" Leanne Wong cried, tumbling through the pub and crashing into their table. Leanne was a Hufflepuff and a member of Dumbledore's Army. "Katie! You're being idiotic! Don't you walk—sorry, Harry—listen to me!" Leanne was tugging on her coat as she tried to catch up with Katie Bell, who appeared intent on leaving the bar. Katie strode purposefully toward the front of the Three Broomsticks with a lumpy, paper-wrapped package in her hands.

"Katie!" Leanne grabbed the girl and spun her, knocking her into Goyle, who spilled what had to be his seventh Firewhisky into Malfoy's lap. Malfoy jumped at the spill and cursed as Goyle grabbed a handful of paper napkins from the bar and tried to mop up the wetness from Malfoy's trousers, leaving little white bits of paper on them.

"Sorry, Malfoy," Leanne apologized, then turned back to Katie. Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, then looked at the package in Katie's hand, then at Katie Bell's face. If it was possible, Malfoy went even more pale. He turned, resolutely, back to the bar, shoved Goyle in the chest away from him, snatched the entire bottle of Firewhisky from the bar and tipped it back into his mouth. As he chugged the contents to the protesting cries of what appeared to be a tipsy and concerned Millicent Bulstrode, Malfoy signaled to Madame Rosmerta for another bottle.

Harry couldn't believe it. How was Malfoy getting away with this? And on top of that, Malfoy was going to _kill_ himself drinking like that.

Ron shook his head. "Maniac."

Harry couldn't watch anymore. He turned away from Malfoy, dug around in his pocket and produced a deck of Muggle playing cards. "Ever play War?" he asked Ron.

Ron looked interested. He shook his head. "What are those?"

Harry dumped the cards from the beaten, stained cardboard box and began to shuffle them. "Playing cards. They're like Exploding Snap cards, except without the exploding and without the snap." He shuffled them again and Ron widened his eyes in awe.

"Is that War?" he asked.

Harry shook his head as the cards fluttered neatly from one hand to the other. "No. I'm just shuffling the deck."

Ron stuck his finger in the middle of the deck as Harry was shuffling them. The cards flew out of the deck and landed haphazardly across the table and on the floor of the pub. "No-teach me that! Teach me how to shuffle!"

Harry shrugged, finding it funny that a magician's trick like shuffling cards or pulling a rabbit out of a hat was completely lost on a Wizard like Ron.

Ron used his wand to Accio the cards back to the table and Harry manually placed them in order with the paisley card-backs all facing the same direction.

After Harry taught Ron how to shuffle, he decided to teach him a few magic tricks.

"How'd you _do_ that?" Ron gasped as he held the Jack of Spades up in the air. "That _was_ my card! There's no way you could have known, Harry! Do it again!"

Harry grinned, took a sip of his Butterbeer and shuffled the deck again. "Pick a card, any car—"

"Draco!" There was a loud crash and Harry and Ron whipped their heads around to witness the commotion behind them. Malfoy had apparently fallen off his stool and was now belligerently pushing away his friends and struggling stand up.

"'M FINE!" he yelled out, slurring as he pulled himself onto his feet. He leaned forward to stand the rest of the way up but misjudged his balance and tipped headfirst into Goyle's shins. Crabbe snatched Malfoy by the back of his robes before he could fall all the way back down again. He lifted him easily into the air as if he were a child, while Malfoy punched and kicked at nothing. ' _Leggo_ a me!" he wailed. Malfoy's entire shellacked helmet of hair had flipped forward and was now standing straight up. Select pieces bent slowly to either side of his head like wilting flowers.

Millicent righted the bar stool and Crabbe set Malfoy gently atop it, standing closer to him than he had before.

Malfoy turned to Goyle with bleary eyes and hiccupped. "I'm _fine_ Gre . . . Gregory _Goyle_." Malfoy poked Goyle in the chest, then gave him a lopsided smile that shook when he hiccupped again.

"Pathetic wanker," Nott said loudly, then laughed into his drink.

"What's that, _Nott_?" Malfoy yelled as Goyle put a protective hand on his shoulder. "Lend me an _ear_ , I couldn't hear you!"

"Why don't you sing a little tune for us, Malfoy? I'm sure eveyone'd love to hear your secret talent." Theo gave a wicked laugh and something about it made Harry prickle defensively. He knew Malfoy's singing was secret. It _had_ to be. Nott was clearly making fun of him. But then again, Malfoy was pissed and being obnoxious.

"Oi, Teddykins! You know so much impor'nt in-for-ma-tion. It's a bit e _er_ ie. Wouldn't you say?" Malfoy snorted and buried his head into his arms.

Nott jumped off his barstool and quickly made his way over to Malfoy, whose back was shaking with laughter.

"Theo, don't," Parkinson tried to intercede. "He's drunk, he doesn't—"

"Move, Parkinson. Now." Theo shoved past her and yanked the back of Malfoy's scarf to pull him up to a sitting position. Malfoy whipped back, making an exaggerated choking sound with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and his eyes rolled up.

" _Listen here_ , Malfoy—"

"Oh my GOD! Nott, you walked right into that one!"

" _FUCK YOU_ , you little—"

"WHAT BIG EARS YOU HAVE, GRANDMOTHER! Oh, the better to hear you with, my dear! The better to hear you with!" Malfoy laughed loudly in Nott's face and placed a finger on his chest. " _You_ are a wolf in sheep's clothing, Nott! A wolf'n— _hic_ —sheep's clothing." Malfoy reached up carefully and untwined Nott's fingers from his robes. Nott seemed to realize Malfoy was too drunk to be worth it and simply rolled his eyes in disgust and walked back to Zabini.

"Do sheeps have big ears, Crabbe?" Malfoy asked, swaying on his barstool.

"Draco, mate," Crabbe said, "I think you've had enough. We should probably go."

Malfoy shook his head vigorously. " _No_. I've not." He fumbled on the bar for his glass of Firewhisky, nearly knocking it over. He snatched it up and finished the contents in one gulp. Malfoy's head dropped down and he burped, laughing at himself and looking pleased.

Harry and Ron exchanged glances.

Ron looked back at the card in his hands and flipped it over. "Never thought it was possible Malfoy could make more of an arse out of himself, but—"

"There you have it," Harry finished, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. He didn't much feel like drinking anymore."I'm going to the loo." Harry placed down his cards and headed to the men's room of the Three Broomsticks.


	13. Chapter 13

As Harry made his way to the loo, his buzz seemed to crash around him. Harry was still tipsy but he was feeling agitated. It was hard to remove himself from the whole Malfoy thing when the git was screaming like a lunatic twenty feet away.

Harry was scowling at his reflection in the mirror as he washed his hands, when he heard a loud bang behind him.

Malfoy had stumbled into the bathroom and was clinging to the swinging door looking like a rag doll. He cursed briefly. The door swung back with his weight and Malfoy lost his balance. His grasp slipped from the door and he fell full-body onto a large metal waste bin. Malfoy was clutching it in a poor attempt to regain his footing when his weight caused the metal bin to scrape forward across the tile floor and take him down with it. He hit with a loud grunt and managed to up-end the entire waste bin onto himself, covering him in crumpled, wet heaps of paper towels and toilet paper.

Harry's first instinct was to run to Malfoy and help him up, but he stopped himself. No. He wasn't going to help him. Not this time. Not anymore.

Harry's second instinct was to laugh, but there was something distinctly _not_ funny about this.

Yesterday, Harry'd wanted Malfoy to have a taste of his own medicine and to get what was coming to him. Well, here it was. And he'd done it to himself. _Again_. Harry rolled his eyes and crossed arms, watching.

He certainly wasn't going to just _leave_ him . . .

Malfoy let out a muffled groan and pushed uselessly with his arms to stand. Weak from drink, he collapsed back to the floor. "Fff . . . fuck."

He tried again, this time sticking his arse up in the air first and wobbling onto his knees before crawling to the wall. When he reached it, he braced himself on the corner of a stall door and used his hands to drag himself upwards. Malfoy stepped up with one knee, but this move threw his balance askew and he slammed into the stall. His arms reached out to hold him in place for a moment and he cursed before pulling himself to his full height. Once he regained a semblance of balance, Malfoy leaned his cheek against the stall and closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

Harry watched him and felt angry, disgusted, and helpless. He didn't know what to do or if he should do anything at all.

Suddenly Malfoy's head dropped to his chest, causing his entire body to jerk forward. He stumbled and caught himself. "F— worthless fuck." Malfoy stared at the floor, taking heavy controlled breaths and deep swallows. He looked incredibly pale and just a bit green.

His back shuddered suddenly and Harry knew what was coming next.

Harry sprang forward from the sink and shoved Malfoy into the first bathroom stall just as he began to vomit painfully into the toilet. His loosened scarf dipped dangerously low so Harry snatched it off of him and unraveled it quickly so it wouldn't trail into Malfoy's sick.

Malfoy stopped vomiting for a moment and took a shaky breath. He let out a pitiful little moan, then rested his face on the toilet and closed his eyes. Harry could see that his gelled locks were matted to the front of his face in a sheen of sweat and, without thinking, he reached forward with Malfoy's balled up scarf and wiped the sweat off the boy's face. Using his hand, Harry brushed Malfoy's hair back and flattened it against his head as best as he could.

Malfoy cracked open one eye. He looked at Harry as if noticing him for the first time and then groaned. "You've _got_ to be joking."

Harry frowned and sat back. Malfoy's upper body convulsed then and Harry leaned away as he heaved loudly into the toilet again.

Malfoy's hair started to fall in his face, so Harry simply reached out and held it back for him. The smell of vomit was making Harry feel ill so he breathed through his mouth and tried to think pleasant thoughts.

_The Chudley Canons beat the Tutshill Tornadoes 242 to 120 in Chudley's Grandview Stadium. Alabaster Sinfield, Tutshill Chaser, reported exclusively to the Daily Prophet. He felt that the immense number of points gained by the catching of a Snitch offset the—_

"Potter," Malfoy rasped. "Get your sodding hair out of my hand." He sniffed and then coughed. "I mean hand out of my hair."

Harry snatched his hand back and Malfoy laid his head back on the toilet seat. "It's all in the hair, huh, Malfoy? Including my hand." Harry laughed at his lame joke.

"God. Shut up."

They sat in silence for a few moments and Harry noticed that Malfoy's eyes were wet. Whether that was from vomiting or from something else, Harry didn't know, but he balled up a wad of toilet tissue, reached forward and wiped the drops off of Malfoy's face.

This seemed to make it worse, though, because Malfoy's face contorted and more tears fell out of his eyes, so Harry sat back again, feeling useless and wishing he were back at Hogwarts.

"Um, are you okay?" Harry asked.

"No."

Malfoy reached forward and grabbed the balled up toilet tissue out of Harry's hand and wiped at his own face.

A glint of metal at the base of Malfoy's throat caught Harry's attention. "What's that?" He peered closer. "Wait. Is that—?" Harry reached forward and tugged at Malfoy's tie, causing Malfoy's face to slide off the toilet seat and jerk towards Harry.

Malfoy batted his hands away and reached up to his neck, covering the badge protectively. He shot Harry an uneven glare and then his head lolled to the side.

Harry could feel himself getting angry all over again. Why the hell would Malfoy resurrect the _Potter Stinks_ badges two years later and start wearing them again? Especially after what had happened last night! Harry started to think his suspicions of brain damage might have been closer to the mark, after all. "I can't _believe_ you're wearing that. Really, Malfoy. You are truly pathetic."

Malfoy's head nodded slowly. "Thas true," he mumbled. "But don't get your knickers'n a twist. Your self-absorbed hero self'll like this one." Malfoy snorted and removed his hand from the badge letting his head fall back against the stall wall with a crack. "Read it 'n weep," he said to the ceiling.

The letters flashed dimly as though the charm was wearing off, but Harry could still read the words. " _Cedric Diggory Stinks?_ " Harry stood up to leave but Malfoy reached out and yanked him by the wrist back down to the floor. "You're sick!" Harry protested. "You're a sick bastard."

"No, no, no, no, no, no," Malfoy shook his head back and forth it. He fumbled in his pocket for his wand and produced it unsteadily, nearly dropping it into the toilet. He reached up with it and tapped on the badge twice.

Harry stared at the badge as the words changed to _Support Potter_. Malfoy grinned with his eyes closed. "See?" Malfoy asked.

Harry shook his head. No, he didn't see. Obviously it was an old badge, but why would Malfoy re-charm it and wear it out it public? "I don't get it . . ."

Malfoy opened one eye and gave Harry a huge grin. "I _sup . . ._ I sup _port_ you— _hic_ —Potter." Malfoy hiccupped again, a sharp, gurgling sound, and put a hand to his chest, moaning. He crawled back onto his knees and hovered over the toilet for a few minutes, breathing heavily before giving up and resting his face back on the toilet seat.

"Do you know what today is, Potter?" Malfoy whispered.

Harry shook his head. "Hogsmeade day?" he guessed.

Malfoy said nothing for a long time and Harry thought he'd fallen asleep. Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke. "Today is tomorrow."

Harry stared at him. Malfoy closed his eyes and his breathing started to steady off. Harry flushed away the vomit and applied a freshening charm to the stall, then wrapped his arms around his knees. He watched Draco Malfoy fall asleep with his face on a public toilet and wondered when the world had fallen on its head.

….

….

….

"Malfoy?" Harry asked and nudged him. "Malfoy."

Malfoy was emitting soft snores and clearly had no intention of waking up. Harry sighed.

"You're a right git, you know that?" Harry grumbled, more to himself than to Malfoy. "I don't even know why I'm helping you." He began to fiddle with the Slytherin scarf in his hand, folding it into squares. It smelled like expensive cologne and the scent was getting on Harry's hands. "I know you're under the impression that you can do whatever you want to people, but . . . what you did yesterday was—"

What? Morally reprehensible? Embarrassing? Cruel?

"Mean. You're _mean,_ Malfoy. And I don't care if you _are_ sick, like Ron says. I thought we were, I mean. I don't know. I was starting to like you. Imagine that. _Trying_ to like you anyway, despite all of the other shit, but at a certain point you have to stop caving into expectations and just, fuck, I don't know. Think about other people, Malfoy!"

Malfoy let out a short snort.

Harry scowled at him. Malfoy couldn't respond, but something about voicing his thoughts to the wanker's face was therapeutic for Harry. "And here _you_ are, getting drunk and vomiting everywhere. Making an arse out of yourself in public. And you have the gall to act like _I'm_ the disgusting one?" Harry gave a self-deprecating laugh. "And I have the stupidity to believe it. God."

Malfoy groaned.

"God," Harry repeated. "But then again . . ." Malfoy was sick. Malfoy was _sick_. "I don't care if you _are_ sick! You've always been a selfish bastard." Harry reached forward and gave Malfoy's foot a soft kick. "Bastard. But maybe I shouldn't have let you do what you did—okay, what _we_ did—knowing you weren't right in the head." Harry sighed. "I am disgusting. It was wrong. I'll leave you alone from now on, Malfoy. We can go back and be enemies, I guess, if that's what will keep you from, I don't know, doing stupid shit like this." Harry laughed, shortly. "That's pretty self-centered, huh? To assume you did all of this because of me? Though, I suppose I—"

Harry heard the door to the bathroom bang open.

"Harry, mate. You all right in there?" Ron's voice echoed through the loo.

"Yeah, Ron, I'm fine," Harry said. "But . . ."

"Oh, who's in there with you?" Ron asked. He must have noticed the shiny dragonhide boots and balled up green scarf on the floor. "Oh . . . wow. Right, okay. I did see him stumble off a bit ago. Um . . ."

"Yeah."

"Right. So . . ."

"Ron, can you get, I don't know—" Harry was cut off by a scratchy, pathetic voice.

"Crabbe," Malfoy mumbled.

Harry looked at Malfoy. He'd been snoring a moment ago, but apparently he was awake and listening. Which meant that he might have heard what Harry had said. Shit. Whatever. He was drunk, he wouldn't remember.

"Why Crabbe?" Ron asked, struggling to bite back an attitude.

"Cause," Malfoy mumbled. "He's big. And he probably won't hex you. Maybe." Malfoy reached a hand up and scrubbed his eyes with the back of his palm. He let out a loud yawn. Harry could hear Ron's retreating footsteps and then the door banging shut.

Malfoy fixed Harry with a smirk, then, and Harry could feel his ears go red.

"Um," Harry began, then realized he was still playing with Malfoy's scarf. He thrust his arm towards Malfoy and let the scarf hang in his face. "Here. You can wrap up that badge again."

Malfoy gave him a heavily hooded, devious grin and took the scarf back. "No," he said slowly and tried to sloppily stuff the scarf into his wand pocket. "I think I'll wear it for a bit. Stir things up in Hogsmeade." He gave Harry a lazy wink and leaned his head back against the stall wall, closing his eyes.

Harry began to brush imaginary dirt and germs from his trousers as he pulled himself up to a standing position.

"You're not, you know," Malfoy mumbled.

Harry frowned down at him, a mixture of pity and anger fighting through his fledgling buzz to take hold. "I'm not _what?_ " he snapped. "True Hogwarts Champion?"

Malfoy broke out into to a sluggish mass of giggles as the door to the bathroom banged open again.

"Where?" Crabbe's hulking voice demanded.

"Th-there," Ron muttered.

Harry stood back in the stall as Vincent Crabbe opened the door gently and peeked in. His eyes fell on Malfoy and he let out an exhausted sigh. He turned to Harry. "Move, Potter."

No problem, Harry thought. He scrambled out of the stall and back over towards Ron. He gave him a helpless shrug and Ron widened his eyes, looking like he was about to laugh. Harry returned the sink and began to scrub his hands.

"Crabby, Crabby, Crabbe," Malfoy sang from the floor. Harry watched Crabbe's reflection in the mirror. He saw a pale hand shoot up from the floor. "Come to give me a hand. Such a good friend, Crabbe."

Crabbe grunted, ignored the hand and grabbed Malfoy around the waist, hoisting him up. He grumbled something that sounded like "You can't keep doing this," but it was hard for Harry to hear over the splash of water in the sink.

Ron, realizing that he was just standing there watching, jumped to the sink beside Harry and began to pretend to wash his hands. Malfoy's face appeared in the mirror in front of them. Ron averted his eyes but Harry looked right at him.

Malfoy gave Harry a hard, unreadable look before Crabbe nudged him forward.

"Let's go, Malfoy. I heard Flitwick's coming and you don't want him to see you like this."

Malfoy frowned and began to stumble toward the door with Crabbe's support. Malfoy latched onto the swinging door then and stopped. "Wait!" he yelled. His face narrowed and he stumbled towards Harry's sink, using the door as a support. "Potter," he spat.

Harry dried his hands off on his trousers and crossed his arms. "Yes?"

Malfoy grabbed the front of Harry's robes, yanking him forward. He leaned his face towards Harry's ear and, with careful enunciation he whispered, "You're not." He narrowed his eyes and raised his voice slightly so the others could hear. "Not," he repeated, "d'sgusting." Malfoy shoved Harry in the chest and staggered back to Crabbe, who quickly ushered him out of the bathroom.

To anyone who had not witnessed their earlier exchange, Malfoy's behavior would have appeared to be average bullying. But Harry knew what he meant. And try as he might to remain angry with Malfoy, he bit his cheeks instead, fighting off a smile.

Ron flicked his wet hands at Harry and Harry jumped. "Hey!"

"What a git," Ron seethed. "Don't listen to his shit, Harry. You're too nice." Ron held the door to the bathroom open as Harry wiped the water droplets off of his face. "I don't know why you keep helping him."

Harry shrugged and reached for his cloak, wondering when his life changed so drastically that "you're not disgusting," had become the three nicest words he'd heard in weeks. "Don't know," he replied, and left it at that. It was the truth.

The boys pulled on their heavy, winter cloaks, left an enormous pile of knuts and sickles on the table ("Money is money," Ron insisted) and made for the door.

….

….

….

Harry and Ron returned to the Common Room to find Hermione crying and Ginny looking angry. Ron shot forward immediately. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Oh, Ron, it was awful," Hermione sniffed, drying her eyes with the back of her hands. "We—Ginny and I—we were walking back from Hogsmeade when we heard the screaming and—"

Ginny shook her head. "You've never heard screaming like that. She went on and on, up in the air like that, just this torturous sound—"

"Who?" Harry and Ron demanded.

"Katie Bell," Hermione said. "Flitwick said she was cursed. Some— _thing—_ that she was carrying out of Hogsmeade. It ripped from the package and when it touched her skin she flew up in the air and screamed and screamed and, God! It was awful!"

Ron looked at Harry and frowned. "She. We saw her with it." He gestured to Harry and then to himself. "Whatever it was. At the Three Broomsticks. Her friend Leanne was trying to drag her back. They were fighting."

Harry nodded along. "Then what happened?"

"So then," Ginny said, seeming to gain her composure, "Leanne Wong went to pick it up, this necklace that must have been cursed, when Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein came running up, yelling at her not to touch it."

Ron rolled his eyes and shook his head and Harry knew what he was thinking. Sometimes people were so dense.

"Well, Ginny and I ran off then to find help and we found Hagrid and Professor Flitwick, thank goodness, on their way back. Hagrid carried Katie back but, oh gosh. She wasn't speaking, she was hardly breathing and she screamed when he tried to pick her up like she was just. Just in _pain_. So much pain."

"Flitwick wrapped up the necklace and the package and took it back with him." Ginny shook her head. "The worst part is, the whole thing seems like an accident."

"How do you mean?" Harry asked, grabbing a seat and taking off his cloak.

"The package ripped because they were fighting and Leanne said-she said that Katie had taken the package and was bringing it to _Dumbledore."_

Ron's eyes widened.

"What?" Harry asked. "Do you think she was trying to . . . Katie? But why would—? This doesn't make sense."

"I _know_ , Harry," Hermione agreed. "Katie Bell wouldn't try and harm the Headmaster. It _doesn't_ make sense. And now she's off somewhere, almost dead herself and under suspicion for attempted murder!"

"What?" Ron growled, enraged. "She was the victim here, clearly! That's not fair!"

Ginny shrugged. "It's only until they find more evidence. Which I'm sure they will. I don't think anybody, especially Dumbledore, would want to blame Katie."

"Well, when she gets better—" Harry began.

"It's more of an _if_ she gets better, Harry," Ginny said, gently. "And _if_ she does, then they can ask her where she got the necklace. But right now . . ."

Harry stopped and nodded. Who would play Chaser, he wondered? The minute he had that thought, he felt terrible. Katie was in a bad way and Harry was concerned about a Quidditch game. But still . . . he shook his head and decided not to say anything about it yet.

"What about Quidditch?" Ron asked. Hermione shot him a dirty look and he widened his eyes. "Hey, I didn't mean anything, just . . ."

Harry looked at him. "I know, Ron. We'll wait and see."

A dark cloud seemed to pass over Harry then. This was all his fault. He didn't know how, but he knew that it was. He _had_ to get that memory from Slughorn. What if the thing that Katie was carrying had been a Horcrux? What if Voldemort had been trying to possess her or possess Dumbledore? That ring Horcrux had been cursed, too. This was a necklace. Could it have belonged to one of the founders? Rowena Ravenclaw, maybe? Harry needed to find out. What if Katie died because Harry had been too busy drinking Butterbeer and watching Draco Malfoy to notice what was happening right in front of his eyes?

He needed a plan. He needed that damn memory. Slughorn was going to give it to him. Harry just needed to try . . . persistence?

No. Slughorn was a Slytherin. Maybe Harry should make a deal with him. That's how those damn Slytherin minds worked, right? Get something to give something . . . but what could Harry possibly have that Slughorn would want?

Harry could imagine Seamus' answer to that question and started laughing to himself. Everyone looked up at him with shocked faces. He sobered quickly. "Sorry," he muttered. "I need to go get some work done, I think. Ron, come help me."

Ron nodded, waved to his sister and girlfriend and followed Harry back up to their dorm. Harry explained that he needed help coming up with ways to get Slughorn to agree to give Harry his memory.

"What about asking Hermione? She's the smart one, you know."

"I'll talk to her, too," Harry said, "but you're the business man, Ron. You know how to drive a hard bargain. I want your ideas."

Ron beamed at the compliment and drew his shoulders back proudly. "I am, huh, Harry? I bet I can think of _loads_ of ideas."

"I know you can, Ron," Harry said, hoping that Ron _could_ because Harry certainly could not.

When they entered the room, Seamus was sitting on his bed wearing just white pajama bottoms and a scowl. "Harry" he whined. "Clean this shite off the floor."

"Huh?"

"I don't care if you want to throw temper tantrums and kill You-Know-Whos but don't you dare trash this room again, mate."

Harry looked around on the floor where multiple chocolate stains and oozing nougats marred the tile. Seamus jumped off of his bed and stomped toward the bathroom.

Ron burst out laughing. "Er—Seamus, mate?"

Seamus paused. "What?"

"Your—" Ron started laughing loudly and could only manage to point at Seamus. Harry looked at Seamus' bottoms and bit his lip.

Seamus turned and saw where Ron was pointing. He pulled at his pajama bottoms to get a better look. A large, brown stain spread over the seat of his pajamas. He looked up and glared at Harry.

Ron was howling, "You look like you shit yourself, mate! Oh Merlin! Someone get Colin Creevey! We need this one for the yearbook!"

Harry, holding back a snicker, quickly produced his wand and tried to clean the smooshed chocolate off of Seamus' white bottoms. Harry performed the spell several times, but there was still a faint, brownish tinge to Seamus' bottoms. "Er—sorry Seamus," Harry offered, then burst out in helpless laughter.

"I'm serious!" Ron gasped through his laughter. "Get Creevey. Get Creevey."

"I'll kill you, Harry," Seamus seethed, then his face broke into slight grin and he finally laughed, too. "This isn't over." Seamus stomped from the room as Harry and Ron laughed and Harry Scourgified the chocolate on the floor and on Seamus' bedspread.

When Harry finally finished cleaning, Ron was sitting on Harry's bed shuffling Harry's playing cards. A fresh piece of parchment was laid out in front of him. Harry noticed that Ron had scribbled a few lines on the parchment. "What's this?" Harry asked, picking it up.

"Oh, just a couple of ideas for how to get Slughorn's memory," Ron said smoothly as the shuffling cards fell from his fumbling fingers. He gathered them up again as Harry read his ideas.

_Winks to get Sloghob's Memory_

_Played by Roonil Wazlib and Hinky Pockle_

_1\. Hinky take a pinching with Sloghob for Daily Prophel_

_2\. Invite Minister for Morjums to Sloghob Christmas Party (Pockle must make nice with Minister)_

_3\. Buy a gift for Sloghob: Food or drump_

_4\. Give Sloghob Loze Potion, seduce him for Memory_

_5\. Iggliwob Curse_

Harry bit back a smile. "Mate, I think its time for a new quill."

"What?" Ron asked, looking up from the cards. "Oh. Yeah, the charm is wearing off." He shrugged. "Well, what do you think?"

Harry grinned and sat beside him. "I don't know. Do you think the Minister for Morjums would really come to Sloghob's party?"

Ron frowned. "Huh?" Harry handed him the parchment. Ron shook his head as he looked over the list. "I just turned in my Defense essay yesterday. Snape looked surprised that I'd given it in early." He gave a rueful grin. "I kind of rushed it. I didn't really check it over, either."

"Oh well. I'm sure Snape will just tell you it looks the same as all your other ones."

Ron laughed. "Git."

"Hey, I said _Snape_ would say that, not me." Harry took the parchment back. "How come you didn't have Hermione check it over?"

Ron got a funny look on his face and shrugged. "Dunno. She's busy enough, you know? I don't want to drag her down . . ."

Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"

Ron shook his head. "I don't know. Forget it." He snapped his head up to look at Harry. "Come on! Tell me what you think of the ideas!"

"They're a bit illegible Ron, but . . . what's this one about a loze potion? Love potion?"

Ron chuckled. "Yeah! It was a joke at first but… think about it, Harry. It could work. And then you could Obliviate him afterwards and he wouldn't know."

Harry widened his eyes. "Ron! That's illegal."

Ron nodded. "I know. But we could also save a lot of lives by inconveniencing one stubborn man. Don't you think it's worth it?"

Harry looked back at the parchment. Was it worth it? It seemed underhanded, sneaky. But maybe . . .

"I mean, don't take this the wrong way, mate, but isn't your mission to _kill_ You –Know-Who?"

"Yeah . . . so?"

"So! That's still illegal, Harry! It's still murder."

_Murder._ Harry didn't like this conversation. These were where his thoughts strayed at night. These were the thoughts he had that he never voiced, because he didn't want anyone else to think them. "What do you mean by that, Ron?" Harry asked in a tight voice.

"See, Harry? I said not to take it the wrong way. Cripes."

"You just said I was plotting murder, Ron."

Ron fixed him with a hard stare. "Well, don't mince facts, Harry. You _are_. I'm not saying you _shouldn't_ , but you're going to have to cast an Unforgivable eventually, right? Why wait until the end? Why not just start now? They'll probably put you on trial, anyway."

Harry's heart caught in his throat and he swallowed hard. Why was Ron saying this? Harry couldn't focus on the future! He had to focus on his task, on the present. On killing Voldemort.

Not on the consequences . . . or what the reality of killing someone entailed.

"But it's self-defense!" Harry protested.

" _I_ know that, Harry and you know that, but do you think the people will see it that way when all is said and done? If they know they can get something from you?"

Harry remembered the article in the Daily Prophet about Dumbledore and himself and the vandalism at the Department of Mysteries. Merlin. Ron was right. Ron was completely right. Harry couldn't handle this. Everyone would see this as premeditated murder! "Ron! Why are you saying this!" Harry's voice came out as an embarrassingly high-pitched squeak.

" _Because_ , Harry." Ron sighed. "I just think . . . I just think maybe Dumbledore has you going about this the wrong way. I mean, he couldn't get the memory, right? And he expects you to, what?"

Harry grit his teeth. This was all true, but, still. . . Harry didn't like to think about the fact that Dumbledore might be _wrong_ about something.

"Or, hey!" Ron added. "Maybe its what Dumbledore expects you to do. Maybe he wouldn't do it himself because he's Dumbledore and all that and he can't _tell_ you to do it, obviously, but maybe it's what he expects. Dumbledore's weird like that."

"He is . . ." Harry mused softly. Could Dumbledore actually expect him to retrieve the memory in an illegal way? He wasn't telling him what to do! Could that be why? The Headmaster did always have an infuriatingly opaque way of getting his messages across.

"I mean," Ron continued, "wouldn't the end justify the means?"

Harry said nothing. He partly agreed with Ron. It did seem that the end _would_ justify the means, but taking an innocent man's control away from him . . . robbing him of his own memory . . . it seemed so _wrong_. It wouldn't hurt Slughorn, but it was violating.

"Maybe," he admitted, finally. "But it's different with Slughorn than Voldemort. With Voldemort, I'm killing him in self-defense. And he's . . . _evil_! Slughorn is just an innocent coward."

"So? A crime is a crime in the eyes of the Ministry."

Harry scowled. "But what about _me_? I want to do the right thing. This feels wrong."

Ron sighed. "It's up to you, Harry. It was just an idea. You can keep trying to play nice with Slughorn and hope he comes around or just . . . just get it over with and get on with saving the world before You-Know-Who kills anybody else. One violation for the lives of thousands. I'd say it's worth it."

"Then why don't _you_ do it!" Harry practically shouted. Ron looked at him with a hurt expression on his face.

"What?" he asked in a low voice. "You don't think I can?"

No, no. Harry was not going to lure Ron into his dirty work. "No—Ron I didn't mean it. You're not—"

Ron sat up and glared at Harry. Harry took a deep breath. He could see where this was going and felt helpless to stop it. Ron's ears were tinged pink and the pink was spreading to his cheeks. "You think you're the only one who can do anything? The only one who can help? Just because you're the "Chosen One?"

"Ron, don't do this," Harry muttered, knowing it was useless. When Ron worked himself up like this, there was no stopping him. It was surprising that Ron hadn't been Sorted into Slytherin with his nearly insane need to prove himself to his brothers, to Harry, to everyone.

"You know what, Harry?" Ron climbed off of Harry's bed and threw down Harry's cards. "I think I will. Now that I think about it, it's not a bad idea."

"Giving your professor a Love Potion and then Obliviating him afterward is _not a bad idea_?" Harry shouted, standing up, too.

"Not a Love Potion, you prat. The last one."

Harry grabbed the parchment and read. "The _Iggliwob Curse . . ._?"

Ron scowled and snatched the parchment back and read it. He looked up and frowned. "The Imperius Curse, Harry," he said.

Harry blinked. Then blinked again. Ron turned to go back to his bed. "Ron!" Harry cried. "You can't be _serious!_ "

Ron sat on his bed. "Why can't I?"

"You'll go to Azkaban! Ron!" Harry was beginning to breath heavily. Maybe Ron was drunk, Harry thought for a hopeful moment, but knew it wasn't true. "You can't—just! Let me think of something else! Let me try . . ." Harry grabbed the parchment back. "Um, I'll take a . . . pinching . . . for the Daily Prophet!"

Ron crossed his arms and stared at him.

"Look! If it comes down to it, let me do the Imperius Curse. I'm probably going to prison anyway, right?"

Ron shrugged. "Two weeks. If you don't get it in two weeks, then I'm doing it and you can't stop me, Harry."

"Ron!"

"What!"

Harry took a deep breath. Fine. Two weeks. Maybe that would be enough time for Harry to figure this out or at least for Ron to come to his senses.

"Nothing," Harry huffed and set the list on Ron's nightstand. Harry hated that Ron got like this. The jealousy and the need to prove himself were bad enough on their own, but when it got to the point where Ron was willing to take stupid risks and break the law and endanger his life to prove himself, then that's when Harry started to get scared for him.

"I know what you're thinking, Harry," Ron said quietly. "You think I only want to do this to prove that I'm useful."

Harry sat on his bed. "Is that why?" he asked.

Ron was quiet for a moment. "No. That's not all of it. I just think maybe all of us are going about this the wrong way. We're fighting Dark Magic, Harry. Death Eaters. And we're playing by the rules while people like Katie Bell and my father are targeted like prey. Being used, getting killed."

Harry nodded.

"We're wasting time. You-Know-Who came back two years ago, Harry. If we played by their rules, with the kind of people we have on our side, we would have _won_ already. With the Imperius Curse we could have just grabbed up someone like, well, someone like Malfoy, for example and just had him lead us straight to V-Voldemort and been done with it. All his followers claim to have been Imperiused in the past, anyway, so they likely can't throw it off like you. We'd just grab a few of them and make them show us the Horcruxes. Done."

It made sense. It did. "But then we'd have to live with ourselves afterwards."

Ron shrugged. "I wouldn't have a problem living with the fact the Bellatrix Lestrange was manipulated into giving us information."

"I wouldn't either," Harry agreed. "But the Slughorn thing bothers me."

Ron nodded thoughtfully. "Sleep on it, Harry."

Harry snorted. "Yeah. You, too." Harry gave Ron a small smile and Ron returned it, before the boys drew their bed curtains and fell asleep.

….

….

….

The sight of his bed spun out before him as Draco fell back to Crabbe for support. Draco was by no means sober, but his head was clear enough to feel incredibly embarrassed.

"Uh. You should go to bed, Draco," Crabbe suggested.

Draco leaned his head on Crabbe's mammoth chest. "That's the plan," he said, focusing on his bed with one squinted eye.

"Do you, uh," Crabbe faltered. "Need, um. Help getting ready?" The last three words were rushed.

Draco pushed himself off of Crabbe and grabbed one of the posts of his bed, swinging around to face his friend. Draco fixed Crabbe with what he thought was a haughty look—a one-eyed haughty look because Crabbe's image was swimming through Draco's double-vision—and shook his head, over-enunciating his words. "No. No thank you, Vincent. You have been more than helpful tonight. I believe I can take it from here," Draco made a grand gesture with his hand and gifted Crabbe with a smile.

Crabbe shrugged. "Uh, okay. Well, here. Let me put the wastebasket next to your bed, anyway."

Draco ignored him and crawled onto the covers, fully clothed and cloaked with his boots hanging over the side. He groaned pitifully and closed his eyes.

"You're sure you're okay?" Crabbe asked.

"'M fine. Go 'way. Wanna sleep."

Draco felt Crabbe pushing his feet up onto the bed. "I'm just, uh, I'm putting a Locking Charm on your bed."

"Why?"

"Because you'll be passed out in a minute and Zabini and Nott aren't happy with you."

Oh. "M'kay."

"Goodnight, Draco," Crabbe said.

Draco sat up suddenly. He might never see Crabbe again. If Katie Bell delivered that necklace . . . "Crabbe?"

Crabbe took a deep breath and crossed his arms. He looked as though his patience was wearing thin.

"Um. Thank you. For everything. Really." Draco looked up at him carefully and Crabbe gave him a small smile.

"Don't worry about it."

Draco shook his head. "No, I mean it. You're my best friend. And I'm not just saying that 'cause I'm drunk."

Crabbe raised his eyebrows and gave him a doubtful look.

"Well, maybe I am," Draco admitted. "But it's the truth. I mean it. And . . . whatever happens, um. I just wanted you to know. Thank you. For being a good friend."

Crabbe tried to hide the little smile on his face with a frown. "Yeah. You too, Draco. Thanks for telling me."

"Extinguish these lights and go to bed," Draco commanded, slouching back down and closing his eyes.

Crabbe took a step forward and looked at Draco hard.

"What?" Draco asked. "Wanna sleep now."

Crabbe sat his giant body onto Draco's bed, dipping the mattress down and upsetting Draco's comfortable position. Draco groaned.

"Draco," Crabbe said.

" _What?"_

Crabbe took a deep breath like he was about to start a serious conversation. Ugh. This was all Draco's fault. Why did he have to get all maudlin before he wanted to sleep?

"You're scaring me, Draco," Crabbe murmured quietly. "I'm really worried about you."

"You should be," Draco said into his pillow. Why deny it? It was all over anyway.

"Can—can't I help?" Crabbe asked, sounding confused. Draco figured it made sense. Crabbe had always been able to help in the past. All he had to do was flex his muscles and the situation was under control.

"No," Draco whispered.

Crabbe dragged a blanket off the floor and stuck it on top of Draco. "I want to help," he said.

"I'm beyond help, Vin." Draco turned and looked at Crabbe. He looked so lost, so confused. "But if I think of something you can do . . ."

Crabbe nodded. "Whatever you need, Draco. You're taking on too much. You can't see what it's doing to you but it's freaking me out. Goyle, too."

Draco snorted. "Goyle. Like he cares."

Crabbe frowned. "He _does_ care, Draco! You've been shoving us all away and not telling us anything! Acting like you're crazy! Just because he pulled away from you doesn't mean he doesn't care. He doesn't know what to do!"

"That's because there's NOTHING YOU CAN DO!" Draco yelled into his pillow. Draco felt the lump of Crabbe stand up from his bed and the mattress shift back into shape.

"Fine. Go to bed, Malfoy."

Draco swallowed the lump in his throat that was either tears or vomit. "I meant what I said, Vince," Draco said softly.

Crabbe extinguished the lights. "So did I, Draco." Draco heard him mutter a Locking Charm and leave.

….

….

….

Draco was drifting out of the tight-hold of a wonderful dream, when he suddenly realized that it was gone and he couldn't get back into it and he was hungover. So hungover. He hadn't been hungover in his dream.

Draco let a strangled whimper and curled tightly into himself as he realized that he was fully clothed and still had his boots on. He reached up for a pillow and tried to smash it into his face to press away the dull stickiness and pounding headache. He tried to swallow but his mouth tasted like he'd eaten roadkill and he was incredibly thirsty.

For a moment he felt like he was going to vomit and had a hazy memory of Crabbe placing a wastebasket next to his bed. Draco gave a tentative burp, which tasted like whiskey, and felt his nausea rise up in his throat before it grudgingly resided.

What had happened? Where had he drank? He couldn't remember anything except Crabbe giving him a trashcan and vomiting in a toilet somewhere. But where? Someone had been with him. Someone had seen him throwing up.

Draco desperately needed to piss but he wanted to stay in bed. It wasn't fair! He sighed and, keeping one eye closed so he could pretend he was still asleep, Draco stumbled out of bed and banged his elbow on solid curtains.

"Fuck!" he swore, rubbing his elbow and quickly undoing the Locking Charm that he couldn't remember casting. Draco made the dizzying walk to the bathroom and clutched onto the sink for balance.

He turned on the water, cupped his hands, and began to slurp the liquid from his hands like a desperate man on the verge of death. Water dripped down his chin and forged an icy path down his dry, hot throat, and he sucked it up greedily, unable to get enough.

After drinking what must have liters of water, Draco put a hand on his distended, churning stomach and moaned. He went and used the toilet and sat on it like a girl, feeling too weak to stand on his own feet. When he was done he sat there, leaning his head against the wall and trying to control the spinning. After a while, it became clear that he was going to vomit again. He quickly flushed the toilet and dropped to his knees, heaving into the water and wondering if it was possible to have an aneurism at his age.

After feeling marginally better, Draco sank back onto the floor and was suddenly hit with a flashback of the previous night. It was Potter. Potter had watched him vomit.

Oh, God.

It was the Three Broomsticks.

They were in Hogsmeade. Madame Rosmerta was giving them drinks . . Madame Rosmerta was!

Draco shoved the palms of his hands into his eyes as he felt the tears well up. Dumbledore might already be dead! He might already be dead! And Draco was too busy getting drunk to even notice if he had _killed_ someone.

Shut up, he told himself. You knew it was coming. You did everything you could. There is no way to stop time. It's over. There is nothing left to do but wait and see.

And then what? What would he do if he had succeeded? Would he go to the Dark Lord tonight and tell him? Would Snape help? Would Snape kill him and take the credit and let his whole family die?

Draco moaned piteously and rubbed his head. It didn't matter. It did matter, but he couldn't worry about it now.

Draco looked up and could see that the sky was growing light. There was no way he could go back to bed now. He dragged himself up and wobbled out of the bathroom to his dorm where he grabbed his cloak and wand.

Breakfast hadn't started yet, but he could use something to settle his stomach. Draco's stomach grumbled at the thought.

In fact, he hadn't eaten much in a long time. Maybe they had some dinner leftovers in the kitchen.

Pulling the hood up on his cloak, Draco left the Slytherin dorms in search of food, terrified of what he might find instead.

….

….

….

"Dobby, _why_ did you ever leave the Malfoys?" Draco asked through a mouthful of thick syrupy waffles and whipped cream. "I mean, _hangover potion_ in—," he swallowed, "coffee? You are an elf among elves, Dobby! More pudding, please."

Draco had been in the kitchen for two hours now, trying to quench a seemingly insatiable appetite. Dobby and the kitchen team had fed him bacon, eggs, sausage, treacle tart, leftover Yorkshire pudding and now thick Belgian waffles with whipped cream, syrup, bananas, berries and a biscuit with raisins in the shape of a smiley face on top.

Draco was happy here. Draco could stay in the kitchens. He never wanted to leave. Dobby was nice. Draco's father should have kept a tighter reign on his house-elves. Draco didn't mind too much, though, because if Dobby had still been at the Malfoys, then Draco wouldn't currently be feasting like a glutton.

"Master Malfoy, is you wanting to join your friends in the Great Hall for breakfast now?"

Uh, no. "What's for breakfast?" Draco asked. He needed to stall Dobby. He also needed to know what he was going to eat next.

"The house elves is making a special treat for Hogwarts students today," Dobby said brightly. Draco shoved a spoonful of pudding in his mouth and nodded for Dobby to continue. "We is making Belgian waffles with whipped cream, syrup, bananas and fresh berries."

"Oh, excellent!" Draco said thickly over a mouthful of waffle. "I'll have two."

"Anything for you, young Sir!"

"With extra smiling biscuits, Dobby! I like those. Those are a special treat."

Dobby grinned. "Dobby is making them to cheer up Winky!" He looked suddenly sad. "It is not working though. Dobby is not giving them to Hogwarts students if they is making Winky sad."

"Dobby, Winky is an anomaly. Give each student two biscuits. One to keep and one to give to a friend. It will certainly boost morale if . . . if something bad. Um." Draco cut himself off with by shoving another spoonful of pudding in his mouth. He laughed to himself. Maybe if he never stopped eating, he'd never have to explain himself! Dobby-get your biscuit team on those, stat. And go get Winky!"

"Yes, sir!" Dobby said with a happy salute.

Draco grinned. House elves needed to be told what to do. It made them so happy. He wasn't sure why he cared about happy house-elves, but if happy house-elves could give him coffee with hangover potion in it, then there needed to be more happy house-elves.

A dirty, bedraggled house-elf who looked like she could use a little hangover potion herself dragged herself up to the side of Draco's stool. "You is wanting to see me, young sir?"

Draco scowled at her. "Clean yourself up Winky! You're a disgrace."

She frowned. "You is being one to talk—" The minute she said the words her eyes widened in horror and she clapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh! Sir! Winky is being so sorry! She is not meaning disrespect!" Winky snatched up a wooden spoon off of Draco's makeshift banquet and began to smack herself in the head with it.

"Winky!" Draco yelled. "Stop letting that utensil touch your filthy skin."

"Yes, sir!" Winky trembled. Draco snatched his wand, pointed it at her and Scourgified her. He pointed it at the spoon and Scourgified that, too, for good measure.

"You want something to do, Winky? A master to boss you around?" Draco asked, taking a bite of his biscuit.

Winky nodded fervently. "Oh, yes, young Sir! But I is belonging to Dumbledore now."

Draco pressed his lips into a thin line. _That's what you think_.

"Well, Winky. I'd like to do you a favor."

She blinked and nodded.

"When," he coughed, "Dumbledore doesn't have you do anything or just whenever I feel like I need you, you can come be my elf."

She frowned. "Winky is not understanding."

Draco shrugged. "Sure, we wouldn't do the whole magical bond and all of that . . . unless, you decided that you wanted to somewhere down the line if, say, something happened to your current Master," Draco rushed on, "but you could take care of me! Just like you did with your old family. You can clean my room, you can feed me, and whenever I need you, I can just call for you and you'll be there."

Her eyes were filled with tears. "Sir?"

"And I'll even let you keep all of my secrets. In fact, if you told anyone my secrets, I'd have you hunted and killed."

She blinked again.

"Well?" Draco asked. "Is it a deal?"

Winky trembled as tears fell down her face. "Winky is not knowing what to say! Young sir is being too kind! Winky does not deserve the kindness!"

"Stop crying," he ordered. She did. Draco smiled. "Eat this smiling biscuit," he commanded and dropped a fresh one from a plate of biscuits down to her open hands.

"But sir—"

"Eat it!" Draco ordered. Then smiled. "And smile while you eat it. In fact, break it in half and go give half to a friend. And they have to eat it because I said so."

"Yes, sir," Winky said and began walking away.

"Can you call me Master?" Draco asked hopefully.

Winky shook her head, sadly. "Oh, no, Sir. I is only allowed to call that to a bonded Master."

Draco thought for a moment. He had to make this really good. "Call me . . . let's see. Call me 'Your Majesty.'"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she squeaked.

Draco let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly spitting out a mouthful of banana. "HA! That's perfect, Winky. I love it!" he said thickly. "Now go eat your biscuit."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Draco's smile dropped off of his face. What was he doing, sitting in here? If Dumbledore was dead, he needed to know. He needed to stop acting like a child.

Letting out a shaky breath, Draco stood. He couldn't delay the inevitable any longer. It was time go the Great Hall and face reality.

Feeling uncomfortably full, Draco dumped a tray of smiling raisin biscuits into his pocket and made his way to the Great Hall.

….

….

….

Draco sat next to Millicent at the Slytherin table, sneaking biscuit after biscuit from his pocket and waiting for the rest of the students . . . and the staff . . . to show up.

One by one, the other Slytherins, looking sleepy, made their way to the table and began to pour their tea and sugar their coffee.

Draco was tapping out a beat on his thigh and shaking his right foot. He must have cast a glance at the staff table no less that 80 times in the last five minutes.

Still no Dumbledore.

But, if Dumbledore was dead, wouldn't Draco have heard about it by now? Students at Hogwarts could never keep a secret, especially about something like that.

Unless the old man died alone, locked in his office or his bedchamber and no one had found him yet.

"Malfoy, are you alright?" Millicent asked as Draco swallowed another bite of biscuit.

"Huh? What? Fine." Draco stared intently at the corner of the Slytherin table, then cast another darting glance at the Headmaster's seat. Empty. He looked back to the table.

"You made this weird squeaky moan. Did you not even notice?" Millicent asked.

Draco looked at her and realized that rest of the Slytherins were looking at him, too.

He laughed nervously. "Rough night. Ha. Obviously." Draco reached back into his pocket and shoved a biscuit in his mouth.

Millicent nodded. "Yeah. Right," she said. "Um, why were you drinking like that, anyway?"

Draco pointed to his full mouth and shrugged. Millicent waited until he swallowed for an answer, but he crammed another biscuit in his mouth and repeated his helpless gesture. Millicent scowled and Dumbledore walked in.

Draco collapsed onto the table in sheer relief.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Dumbledore had cast a Sonorus Charm and was addressing the students before breakfast. That was unusual. Draco snapped up and stared at the old man warily out of the corner of his eye. What if he knew?

Draco swallowed. He could feel his stomach churning with all the food and alcohol. He took a shaky breath.

"Yesterday, a very unfortunate circumstance befell Hogwarts student, Katie Bell, on her walk back from Hogsmeade."

Gasps and murmured whispers of shock could be heard among the students.

Draco leaned over and vomited on the floor of the Great Hall.


	14. Chapter 14

"Is everything all right, Mr. Malfoy?" Dumbledore called across the Great Hall, using his Sonorus Charm. Every student turned to look at Draco. He felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment as he resolutely swallowed the taste of bile.

If he hadn't had a reason to kill the old bastard before, he certainly did now.

Draco could hear whispering and snickering as Millicent called out, "He's fine, Professor!" Draco raised his head and gave a nod to the Headmaster, spelled his vomit clean and dropped his head into his arms.

Draco felt terrible. All he wanted to do was leave the Great Hall—to be anywhere but there—except he _knew_ that he had to stay and listen.

Had Draco killed Katie Bell? Was Draco responsible for the murder of an innocent student? Was Bell now the victim of his own convoluted plan and the direct result of his cowardice in killing Dumbledore himself?

Draco felt the churning heat rise in his throat again, but he swallowed it back down. He needed to stay calm and listen. He needed to know what he'd done.

"As some of you may have heard," Dumbledore continued, "Ms. Bell was the victim of a terrible curse. We are still learning the details of what happened, but she is currently recuperating at St. Mungos. We are hoping dearly that she will wake soon and return to Hogwarts. I know I speak for all of us when I say Ms. Bell is in our thoughts and hearts."

The students murmured their shock and agreement.

Draco felt a rush of relief. He bit his lip to keep from crying. Katie wasn't dead. Draco had not killed her. The necklace was now safely tucked away somewhere and Dumbledore was _alive_.

Following that rush of relief was the feeling of insurmountable dread. Draco had failed. He had failed and he had to think of something else. He had to start working on that blasted Vanishing Cabinet again. His mother was still in danger, Draco was still in danger and if the Dark Lord found out that he had failed in this attempt, Draco was finished.

No one knew that Draco had done it, though. Right? How could anyone suspect him?

Draco slowly raised his head to peek at the Head table. When he did, he saw that Snape's eyes were glittering furiously at him. As the Slytherin Head of House was not likely affected by public displays of vomiting, Draco felt certain that Snape knew Draco was guilty and knew he had failed in his task.

Draco returned Snape's glare with a shaky sneer, then reached for his coffee and took a large gulp. Mountains of sugar made Draco feel a bit more grounded.

Thankfully, the food arrived. Draco received two Belgian waffles topped with extra smiling biscuits, just as Dobby had promised. He grabbed his fork and dug in, stuffing as much food into his mouth as he could.

Pausing for a moment, Draco took a breath and allowed the food time to digest. When he did, he realized that everyone at the table was looking at him. He plucked one of the smiling biscuits from his pile of sugar-food, dipped it in whipped cream and offered it to Pansy.

"For you."

"Draco, you just vomited all over the floor. Get that biscuit out of my face."

He smirked. "Fine. More for me." Draco took an enormous bite out of the biscuit.

Despite feeling incredibly stuffed and incredibly sick, Draco couldn't seem to stop shoveling the food into his mouth. He had forgotten how much he loved sugar. Madame Pomfrey had told him to wait until January to resume his normal diet, but it seemed that one taste of the forbidden fruit had led him to ravage the entire forest.

As he bit into what must have been his twelfth biscuit of the morning, Draco noticed a shadow hovering over him and glanced up into the livid face of Professor Snape.

"Come with me," Snape commanded in a cold voice.

"But, Professor, I'm not done—"

"NOW!"

Draco lifted his napkin and made a show of dabbing his mouth delicately. He stood, feeling overwhelmingly full and slightly off-kilter. Snape strode purposefully out of the Great Hall as Draco wobbled behind him, rubbing his stomach with one hand.

The professor led Draco to his office and locked the door. "Sit," he commanded.

Draco could barely stand, but decided to be defiant. "No." He crossed his arms.

Snape gave him a vicious look. Suddenly a chair flew from the corner of the room and hit Draco from behind, knocking him into it with a cry. The jarring movement roiled his stomach and Draco convulsed, feeling the contents of multiple breakfasts on the rise.

Snape gave an alarmed look and took a step back. A loud burp erupted from Draco's mouth and into his hand and the pressure in his stomach subsided minimally. He glanced hesitantly up at Professor Snape, who didn't bother to hide his revulsion. "Excuse me," he muttered.

Snape said nothing and took his seat. They sat across from each other, staring in silence. It reminded Draco of when Snape had tried to get him to speak earlier in the week. After some time, Draco narrowed his eyes. This man was not to be trusted. No one was. It was like Draco had told Myrtle the Voice: he was alone.

Snape finally took a breath and spoke first. "I know it was you."

"You know _nothing_." Draco's answer was automatic.

Snape's lip curled over his teeth. "Please. That gutless attempt had _Malfoy_ written all over it."

"No it didn't!"

Snape pounded a fist on his desk and snarled. Draco flinched. "You're being _careless_! And foolish!"

For the first time, Draco felt hatred towards the man he had always thought was on his side. "What would _you_ know?" he hissed.

Snape looked distressed. He sat back for a moment and ran a hand through his greasy strands in an uncharacteristic move. "Draco." He tried to sound stern but his voice faltered. "Let me _help_ you—"

"I _don't_ want your help! Just stay away from me! Go pretend to be someone else's friend—"

"I'm _not_ your friend, you insolent brat! I am your—"

"You're DAMN RIGHT you're not!" Draco stood and knocked the chair over. "I know what I'm doing, _Snape_ , and I don't need your so-called 'help!' And don't bother running off to the Dark Lord to tell him I've failed my mission, either. This necklace thing had nothing to do with me."

Snape's pale face looked aghast. "Is that what you think I would do?"

Draco kicked the chair like a child. "It's what I know you'd do, _Professor_ ," he hissed. "Yeah, Dumbledore thinks you're on his side, too. Ha. HA. What a bloody laugh!"

Snape shook his head. "Draco, you must know that I think of you as family—"

_And YOU must know that I think of you as Judas bloody Iscariot_ , Draco thought, gritting his teeth together. Snape was not his family. Snape was all for Snape. Anything he had ever done for Draco was for Snape's own benefit. The only reason he had defended Draco all those times because he wanted to look like an ally in the eyes of Draco's father. Draco had known this all along, he wasn't stupid. Obviously Snape had let him get away with nearly everything he had ever done, but it had never been for Draco's benefit. It had been for Snape's. And how perfectly it had worked out for the man. How simple it was to just slip right back into his place beside the Dark Lord upon his return. Snape's support of Draco had been nothing more than an extremely long and calculated move. And now? He was trying to find out what Draco was doing for something else. Certainly not to stay close to Draco's father anymore, who the Dark Lord had left to rot in Azkaban. What for, then, if not to step in and derail Draco's plans? How easy it would be for Snape to report all of Draco's failed attempts to the Dark Lord and place Draco's head on the chopping block.

Snape didn't think Draco could do it. And he wasn't trying to _help_ him. Snape wanted to do the task himself. He wanted to steal Draco's glory.

Draco stepped forward and placed two hands on Snape's desk, leaning close. "Liar," he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low and raw. " _Liar_. You're a bloody liar."

Snape pressed his lips together and sat back in his chair.

Draco shoved off of Snape's desk, and turned from the office, slamming the door behind him.

….

….

….

The more Harry thought about it, the more he grew suspicious. It seemed that the necklace was not a Horcrux, after all, but simply an incredibly cursed dark artifact. It looked familiar, too. Flitwick had allowed him to view the necklace at a distance and Harry was sure he had seen it before. Years ago, maybe. It reminded him of something that had been at Borgin and Burkes, which made him think of Malfoy.

Malfoy had a task for Voldemort.

The necklace had been intended for Dumbledore.

And some of those things Malfoy had been saying . . . his mental state on the day it happened . . .

No. Malfoy was a _teenager_ for crying out loud. There was no way Voldemort would trust some Hogwarts student with a task that seemingly huge.

And yet . . . Malfoy had been incredibly elusive since the day Dumbledore announced that Katie Bell had been cursed. Granted, the entire student body watched him vomit waffles in the middle of the Great Hall, so that may have had something to do with it.

Whenever Harry checked his Marauder's Map in search of Slughorn, he would casually notice that Malfoy was nowhere to be found. Where had he been going? How was he disappearing from the Map? Weren't others suspicious? What about his Slytherin cronies? Surely they would be lost without Malfoy barking out orders—though they seemed to be getting along fine without him. In fact, it appeared as though Blaise Zabini had stepped forward and taken on the role as Slytherin leader after Malfoy had attacked Parkinson at the start of the school year. Their initial hostility toward Malfoy seemed to have subsided, but Malfoy was in no way back to his old reigning self.

Actually, it seemed that the boy was going to ridiculous lengths to reassume his role. He even resurrected his old hairstyle and treatment of others, though he hadn't so much as glanced at Harry since Hogsmeade.

Not that Harry cared.

As Harry entered the Potions classroom, he remembered that he still hadn't come up with a solution for apprehending Slughorn and getting his memory. In fact, Slughorn appeared incredibly wary of him and avoided conversations with Harry altogether, finding favor in other Slug Club members like Blaise Zabini and, surprisingly, Ginny.

Harry approached Slughorn's desk in an unplanned attempt to catch him before class, but Slughorn scurried away, as usual, with a roll of parchment in his hands.

"Now, now," Slughorn began, giving Harry an uneasy glance. Harry rolled his eyes inwardly. He certainly couldn't come right out with the Horcrux thing in front of the whole class. What would he have even said to the man?

Perhaps just an ominous and direct: _I'm counting on you, professor . . ._

Shaking his head, Harry retreated to his seat as the students quieted down and pulled out their notes on Calming Draughts. Slughorn continued speaking.

"I know we're used to working with partners of our choice, but I've decided that important learning happens when we match up with new people. That said, I will be assigning your partners." Students could be heard groaning and Harry joined with them. "Together you will be mixing powerful Calming Draughts following the directions in your _Advanced Potions_ textbooks on page 347."

Slughorn read off the assigned partners from his list. Ron cringed when he was paired up with Neville Longbottom, but flashed Neville a bright smile. Neville waved back, looking inordinately relieved. Last time Slughorn assigned partners, Neville was paired with Millicent Bulstrode whose shameless and crass flirting caused Neville to blow up his cauldron twice. Neville could only handle being asked to tighten the moose's bra straps so many times . . .

The exploding-cauldron incident had landed Neville and Millicent a suggested detention in which Slughorn had given them a chance to regain some lost points. The two were asked to recreate the potion on their own and deliver the finished result to Slughorn for half credit. Needless to say, Neville returned to the Gryffindor Common Room that evening looking very flustered and suspiciously debauched.

Slughorn continued to call out partners. Not surprisingly, and because the world hated him so much, Harry was paired up with Malfoy. Harry looked across the classroom at the blonde's stationary back and realized that Malfoy had no intention of moving. Either that, or he had taken a vow of stillness this week. Harry picked up his books with a huff and slammed them down on the other side of Malfoy's table.

"Malfoy." Harry kept his voice neutral, despite the sudden racing of his heart. Harry was so close to him that he could smell Malfoy's own distinct smell. He had a sudden sense of déjà vu and found himself back at the Shrieking Shack with cool hands dabbing on his forehead to the rhythm of Malfoy's murmuring timbre.

Damn Malfoy.

Malfoy grunted and shoved something in his mouth. A little spray of crumbs showered onto the Potions table.

"Feeling better since last time I saw you?" Harry asked, evenly, wondering if Malfoy could even remember their little powwow on the toilet floor.

Malfoy turned to him with an icy glare and swallowed, which seemed to answer Harry's question. Malfoy reached into his pocket and shoved another handful of food into his mouth. He brushed the resulting crumbs off his chest, turned back to the front of the room and stuck his chin in the air.

Harry noticed that his chin was looking decidedly less pointy. In fact, Malfoy's whole face looked considerably rounder.

"What are you eating?" Harry asked, not sure what else to say.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Malfoy asked thickly, swallowed again and reached into his pocket for more.

"Well . . . not really," Harry admitted.

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Just seemed the thing to say when you're spilling crumbs into a pile of volatile potions ingredients in front of a heating cauldron."

Malfoy chewed, then grabbed another handful of what appeared to be biscuit crumbs from his pocket. He shoved the crumbs into his mouth, decorating the table and his face with an assortment of powdery morsels.

"Okay. Um. Put your food away."

Malfoy ignored him and grabbed another handful, this time deliberately dispersing little food tidbits on their workstation. Harry was feeling an odd mixture of revulsion and attraction, as he watched Malfoy greedily stuff himself with sweets. Malfoy was eating the way he had drank at the Three Broomsticks, the way he resolutely chose silence for a week, the way he did ever _ything,_ which was with boundless, reckless abandon.

Malfoy, it seemed, never did things half way.

And Harry, finally putting a finger on this quality, found it oddly attractive, as well. It gave method to Malfoy's madness and made him seem less confusing. It probably wasn't fair for Harry to try and classify all of Malfoy's antics into one neat, little box, but the simplicity of it made Harry feel sane. Malfoy was extreme and Harry found it enticing, except that Malfoy was currently acting like a gluttonous pig and compromising their potion with cross-contamination.

"Malfoy," Harry hissed, watching Slughorn circulate the room and check on the students' progression of work. "Put the damn food away and stop eating!"

"No," said Malfoy. He smirked at the table.

"You're going to get crumbs in our potion and mess the whole thing up!"

Malfoy snickered. "Oh, is Slughorn's star student afraid of failing?" Malfoy flicked the crumbs from his lap in the direction of Harry. He then scooped the remaining crumbs from the table into his hand and blew them into Harry's face. Harry cursed when one got stuck in his eye. "Please," Malfoy continued, coolly. "I could make a Calming Draught in my sleep."

"Yeah," Harry said and removed his glasses to rub his eye. "You seem to do a lot of things in your sleep."

Malfoy raised his eyebrows for a moment, then turned to his textbook. "Leave me alone, Potter. I have a stomachache."

"Gee, I wonder why." Harry rubbed his eye harder. He couldn't get the crumb out and his eye was tearing up. "Dammit, Malfoy. I'll be back."

Harry stumbled blindly to the Emergency Eyewash Station in the corner of the Potions classroom to the sound of Malfoy's jeering laughter.

He fiddled with the faucets and a double stream of water came shooting out of the jets and onto his face. Harry sputtered and choked, trying to clear the water that had gone up his nose. He positioned his irritated eye over one of the jets as the other jet stubbornly shot water into his face. Using both hands, Harry grabbed his eyelid and face and forced his eye to remain open under the burning stream of water until he was satisfied that the crumb had been flushed.

Other students had noticed his debacle and were laughing from their seats.

"Harry, my boy!" Harry could hear Slughorn making his way over to him. He blinked water from his eyes as the round, vague man-shape approached. "It wasn't the newt bile you got in there, was it?"

Feeling embarrassed, Harry shook his head. "No, sir. It was nothing."

Through blurry eyes, Harry could see Slughorn nodding. "Yes, yes. Okay then. Back to work."

Harry rubbed his eyes again and stumbled back to the Potions table, thoroughly soaked. Malfoy was hysterical, slapping the desk like an irritating twit. Harry found that several others were laughing at him, too.

"You're such a bloody idiot!" Malfoy cried. "Oh Merlin, Potter! You didn't think to Vanish it?"

Harry frowned. No. He had not. "Give me back my glasses," Harry demanded, fumbling on the table for the metal frames.

"You couldn't even see!" Malfoy cried with glee. "The water! Oh, Merlin! The water was _brown!_ Brown water all over your face! Nothing's come out of those faucets for years!" Another spray of crumbs came out of Malfoy's mouth and he started coughing, punching on his chest to dislodge the food particles. "You looked like a drowning rat!"

"Can you stop being obnoxious for one second so we can get to work?" Harry grumbled.

Malfoy sobered instantly. "Just sit back before you hurt yourself. If you're a good boy, I'll let you stir the cauldron." Surprisingly, Malfoy handed Harry his glasses.

Harry put them on. "No way! You're not doing it all yourself! I've got," Harry flicked through his Potions textbook to the ingredients list for the Calming Draft, "special instructions!"

"I've got," Malfoy imitated, "special instructions!"

Harry glowered and sat back. "Fine. You want to do it your way? You make the damn thing."

"Fine. I _will_."

Malfoy then ordered Harry to gather the ingredients. Harry, feeling dizzy from potion fumes or Malfoy's mood swings, agreed without fuss.

Malfoy praised Harry's ability to gather ingredients with patronizing fervor and told him that he was allowed to measure the Moonstone Dust because he had done so well. Gritting his teeth, Harry scooped the dust into a measuring cup as two judgmental gray eyes lingered over his shoulder, supervising his every move.

"Uh, uh, uh," Malfoy corrected, snatching the measuring cup from Harry and dumping the Moonstone Dust back in the bin. A cloud of dust burst up in Harry's face and he sneezed. "Try again," Malfoy said.

Harry turned to give him a nasty look. Malfoy never took his eyes off of Harry. Feeling agitated and nervous with the scrutiny, Harry reached for the cup, checked the measurements in his book and measured again, certain that he had done it correctly.

Malfoy watched him right up until Harry was about to dump the Moonstone Dust into the cauldron when Malfoy knocked the cup out of his hand and back into the bin where it spilled out. "Wrong again!"

Harry shoved Malfoy instinctively and Malfoy grabbed his hands around the wrist and pinned them together. They stood incredibly close for several seconds, exchanging intense stares. Malfoy was breathing heavily and the warmth of his breath ghosted Harry's nose. It smelled of raisins and cinnamon and stale coffee.

"What's your problem?" Harry demanded finally, feeling Malfoy's fingers tighten around his wrists.

"Get it _right_ and I wouldn't have a problem," Malfoy returned, his eyes glowing maliciously.

Harry twisted his wrists and tried to get out of Malfoy's grip but his fingers were surprisingly strong. "If you're so perfect, why don't _you_ do it?"

Malfoy sneered. "Thank you for the compliment, Chosen One, and no, _Your Highness_ can do it himself. This is a class and no one is pandering to your royal needs in here. I'm not one of your bloody followers and you can't boss me around."

"I'm not bossing you around! You keep knocking the damn thing out of my hand and I can't work with you hovering over me!"

"Well, maybe I should let you do it _your_ way so the drinker of the potion can go into immediate cardiac arrest . . . " Malfoy paused and then narrowed his eyes. "Or was that your intent? I realize that you're aware of my penchant for Calming Draughts. Perhaps you thought I wouldn't notice your little error."

Harry widened his eyes. "You think I'm trying to kill you?"

Malfoy raised his head and stepped back from Harry, dropping his wrists. "It would certainly be to your benefit," he said quietly, looking suddenly unsure.

Harry shook his head. "No, it _wouldn't_." Malfoy held his gaze, uncertainly. "Hey," Harry said softly, meeting his eyes. "I know this isn't the best time, but are we ever going to talk about—"

" _NO,"_ Malfoy said in a strangled voice. His eyelashes fluttered quickly and he looked back at his Potions book.

Harry exhaled. "Fine. Just-tell me what to do." Being around Malfoy was exhausting. Harry could not determine his mindset from one day to the next, let alone one minute to the next. He was like a hyper-hormonal girl, except the mood swings and the insanity were not a result of hormones. Malfoy was always thinking, always calculating and hiding. Something, or many discordant things, were at play, guiding his actions. And, as usual, Harry found himself equally annoyed and transfixed.

And after the whole incident in the Chapel, Harry found himself grudgingly attracted to Malfoy. And this unfairness was infuriating. Why was he attracted to someone dangerous and unstable? Why _Malfoy?_

And the answer, he knew, was because Malfoy _was_ _Malfoy_.

And Harry was a masochist.

Malfoy smiled a large, triumphant grin. "All you had to do was ask, Potter!" He stepped back to the Moonstone Dust. Harry picked up the measuring cup again and Malfoy knocked it out of his hands onto the floor. The unbreakable glass hit the stone with a ringing clatter.

"If you keep knocking things out of my hands," Harry said through clenched teeth," I'm going to bloody _throttle_ you."

Malfoy rolled his eyes then cleared his throat. "Welcome to your first day of Potions, Potter" he began in a falsely cheery voice. He picked up the bin of Moonstone Dust and thrust it in Harry's face. "These," he gave the bin a shake," are dry ingredients." He slammed the bin down and picked up the cast aside measuring cup from the floor. "This?" he shook the cup in Harry's face. "Is a liquid measuring cup." He picked up the Moonstone Dust and a different measuring cup. " _Dry_ ingredients . . . _dry_ measuring cups." He slammed both items down and grabbed the liquid measuring cup again and held it up to Harry's eyes. Harry looked through the wavering glass and measurement marks at Malfoy's distorted gray eyes. Malfoy gave the glass another shake in Harry's face. "Meniscus." Malfoy spat the foreign word with finality and threw the liquid measuring cup aside.

Harry frowned, annoyed. He wasn't a Potions genius or anything, but he didn't like being treated like an idiot. "Would it have been so hard to just say, 'Harry, use the other measuring cup?'"

Malfoy returned to chopping. "Yes," he sniffed. "Yes, it would have. Because I would _never_ call you 'Harry.'" He switched knives and started grumbling under his breath. "Harry . . . sounds like _berry_. Ooh, wait a minute . . ." Malfoy set his knife down, reached into his other pocket and a produced a handful of berries.

This time, Harry reached forward and knocked the berries out of Malfoy's hand and onto the floor. "Do you have some kind of an _eating_ _problem_?" Harry demanded as the last of the berries rolled to a stop under Neville and Ron's table.

Malfoy blinked and turned to Harry with an unreadable expression on his face. His palm was still outstretched as though he were holding the berries.

"You can't keep eating in Potions class!" Harry continued his rant. "And why are you eating so much, anyway? You're getting fat!"

Harry tried to stop the words as they came out of his mouth but it happened too fast. He snapped his mouth shut and glanced slowly up at Malfoy, afraid of what he would see. And, predictably, if looks could kill, Harry would now be dead. Malfoy's mouth curled viciously and he took a step toward Harry. 'Sorry,' was on the tip of Harry's tongue when:

"For your information, you impudent bug-eyed toad," Malfoy snarled, "those were the _hellebore berries_ that we needed to cook down into _hellebore syrup_. Now get your sodding arse down on the floor and pick up every last one of them. And don't you dare use your wand or you'll screw up the efficacy. You _useless_ and _utter_ _moron_."

Harry dropped onto his hands and knees to pick up the berries when he heard the rustle of papers being stuffed into a bag. He peered up at Malfoy who was hoisting his schoolbag onto his shoulder.

"Hey—where are you—?"

"Fuck this. I can't work like this. I can't work with _you_. " Malfoy's cheeks were bright red and the view of Malfoy's broadened chin was rather unflattering from Harry's position on the floor.

"You can't just leave!" Harry cried, scrambling back up from the floor. He dropped a few dusty hellebore berries and a wad of hair onto the Potions table. Malfoy glanced at the berries with disgust. He snapped his eyes to Harry with same look, then turned away from him.

"Watch me," Malfoy muttered under his breath and stormed from the room.

Harry fought the urge to run after him. Driven by guilt, he was determined to make the complicated potion on his own. Harry double checked all of the ingredients and got back onto the floor to pick up the remaining hellebore berries. Why the damn things were in Malfoy's pocket was a mystery to Harry, but, either way, he was not going to screw up this potion. He resolved to make it correctly to prove to himself and to Malfoy that he wasn't completely inept.

When Harry read over the ingredients list, it simply called for hellebore syrup. Harry looked to the rest of the student pairs, each of which had a small vial of a sticky brown liquid that Harry and Malfoy had not had.

The Half-Blood Prince's annotation, however, insisted that one would receive better effects by creating fresh hellebore syrup using berries. Harry frowned and looked up to the supply table in the front of the room. Berries were nowhere to be found, and yet, his specialized instructions called for them and Malfoy, likely in preparation of a chance to show off, had come prepared with hellebore berries.

Malfoy and the Half-Blood Prince followed a similar recipe for the Draught of Peace. That was certainly . . . interesting.

Or perhaps the use of fresh ingredients was simply something that good Potions makers, unlike Harry, treated as a given.

Following the scribbled directions for hellebore syrup, Harry began creating the Draught of Peace.

….

….

….

"Splendid, Harry! Splendid!" Slughorn beamed, inspecting a vial of Harry's light blue potion. Silver swirls of smoke rose from the top and disappeared into a fluff of Slughorn's hair. "Using fresh hellebore berries for syrup! You've got an incredible mind for Potions, young man. Truly, top notch!"

Harry, feeling undeserving of the praise, especially under Hermione's glare from the back of the room, gave a tight-lipped smile. "Thanks, Professor. But it was actually Malfoy's idea, not mine."

Slughorn frowned. "Draco Malfoy, you say?"

"Yes, sir. He came prepared with the fresh berries and all. I can't take credit for that."

"Hmm." Slughorn squinted and looked around the room. "Seems to have disappeared. Where is he now?"

Slughorn had missed Malfoy's dramatic exit? Perhaps the old man was more oblivious than Harry had thought. "Er—he just stepped out for the loo. Potion fumes, you know?" Harry fanned a hand in front of his nose. "Makes him a bit queasy."

Slughorn nodded in full agreement. "Ah, yes. Yes, of course. I feel a bit queasy myself. Always wondered why Hogwarts has the Potions classrooms below grounds. No windows, Harry! Not sensible, I always said."

"I completely agree, Professor." Harry got a quick mental image of Slughorn under the influence of a love potion and making advances towards him. He looked at his professor's bulging sausage fingers and shuddered.

"Hmm, yes. Well, when you see Mr. Malfoy, you tell him that was a very impressive move and that perhaps I'd underestimated him." Slughorn's eyes suddenly lit up and he set the vial on Harry's table and hurried away. "One moment, Harry."

Harry corked the vial tightly and began to pack his supplies. Slughorn was hurrying back to Harry's table with a thick, gaudy envelope, decorated in curling red and green confetti and a gauzy, gold ribbon. Slughorn handed it to him.

"Be a sport and give this to Mr. Malfoy, would you?" Slughorn was nodding, as if agreeing with himself. "Yes, yes. Underestimated the fellow, perhaps."

"Is this an invitation to your Christmas Party, Professor?" Harry asked, politely.

"Haha, yes, my boy! Short notice, I know, but I always carry spares." Slughorn gave Harry a conspiratorial wink. "You never know when an opportunity will spring up to make an important connection."

Harry had to force himself to smile back, despite finding Slughorn's behavior deplorable. If Slughorn had no qualms about using people for personal advancement, then perhaps Ron was right. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to use Slughorn to get what Harry wanted. Plus, it seemed Slughorn had finally gotten over Harry's botched attempt at nabbing his memory. That was a good thing, he supposed.

"You'll be there, won't you, my boy?" Slughorn asked, hopefully. Harry detected a greedy glint in his eye, but couldn't be sure if he was just imagining it.

"Of course, Professor! I wouldn't miss it." Harry nodded and Professor Slughorn clapped his stubby hand onto Harry's back.

"Very good, very good! It wouldn't be the same without Harry Potter in attendance!"

_No, of course not_ , Harry thought bitterly. He nodded again, then shoved Malfoy's invitation amongst the books and crumpled parchment in his messy schoolbag.

….

….

….

The Room of Requirement had once looked so promising. Filled with light and hidden things it had whispered words of comfort and success to Draco when he'd been without answers.

Now, in the dim, fading light of a room stuffed full of shameful secrets, Draco wished he could hide himself in a dusty corner, forgotten, like so many mistakes.

The Vanishing Cabinet was not improving. Draco had exhausted his resources and, despite his meticulous and obsessive tinkering, the ugly, wooden eyesore remained a useless piece of furniture.

Maybe he ought to climb inside it and disappear like Graham Montague. Draco would float in nothingness until the war was over, or end up in some alternate universe where the war had never happened, where Dark Lords were resigned to nightmares and where his father and mother were at home and safe and loved him.

They did, though. They _did_ love him. He was certain that his mother loved him, and his father, too, in his own way. Of course they did, they were his parents.

His mother had said it to him before. She used to say it to him when he was a child, before his nurse put him to bed. Draco would say he loved her too and he'd never had reason to doubt that either one of them meant it.

When Draco began attending Hogwarts, his mother had stopped telling him she loved him. Draco had written it to her in letters during his first year, but the sentiment was never returned. He figured that she stopped writing it because he was too old to be comforted with such frivolities, especially when the intent was such an obvious given.

When Draco's father got arrested, it stopped seeming like an obvious given. His father had never told him he loved him. His father had aligned himself with the Dark Lord. In his vie for power, he had gone and done something stupid and selfish and he left his family behind. He left his mother and he left Draco. In a way, his father had chosen the Dark Lord over them. He had chosen imprisonment over being Draco's father, and being his mother's husband. Draco's father had loved something more.

That is, if the bastard even loved them at all.

Draco wouldn't know. The cold man had never said so and despite the allowance of a weekly letter from Azkaban, Lucius had never written to Draco or, as far as he knew, his mother.

Draco's letters to Lucius had not been sent. Instead, they were locked in a safe box under his dormitory bed. When Draco had first written to his father after the imprisonment, Draco had written "I love you, Father," as the closing. Writing the words had made the quill feel exceptionally awkward in Draco's hand, but he thought he had meant the words and hoped the sentiment might bring his father some comfort.

But then Draco never heard from him. His father never sent him a comforting letter. He never sent his mother a comforting letter. He never bothered to explain his actions, to apologize or even ask how they were doing. He was allowed one letter a week and he either chose not to write, or was writing to someone else. This was when Draco decided to keep the letters under his bed. They were sealed and ready to be sent whenever his father decided that Draco was worth his time and consideration.

The letters had grown increasingly hostile and desperate, but Draco still planned to send them all, as soon as his father wrote to him.

Except for the the first letter. Draco no longer intended to send the first one.

After Conjuring a blanket, Draco leaned back against the Vanishing Cabinet to review his notes. Beside him sat a charmed-cold gallon of mint chocolate-chip ice that had steadily decreased over the last few hours. Draco set his notes down, picked up a spoon and began to scrape the bottom of the gallon for the last few bites as he thought about the upcoming holiday.

His mother had never invited him home for Christmas. Draco knew he was welcome, of course, but she hadn't said a word to him. The day after she had been Crucioed, Draco received an Owl written on a dirty tea towel and stamped with the Malfoy crest. He scraped off the wax seal and unfolded the material. The tea towel had been used as a sort of canvas where splotchy ink pictures had been scratched into the fabric. The towel displayed two smiling stick figures, one lying on a rectangle with long hair hanging over the side and the other of a short, pointy-eared elf with a bow on her head carrying a tray of what looked like a potion bottle and a steamy bowl of food.

This was what Draco should have expected when he begged an illiterate house-elf to owl him.

The Narcissa-stick figure was smiling in the picture, so that must have meant that she was okay. Draco hoped that was what it meant and it wasn't some weird elf-code where Masters had to be sketched on tea towels looking nothing but their best.

Other than this message, and two others demonstrating his mother's progression (one showed her sitting in a chair and reading a book with an elf sweeping the floor and the other showed his mother wearing a long gown with her hair done up in curls and Mags holding a tray of cosmetics) Draco had not heard from him mother.

He knew she loved him, but he had not heard from her. And that hurt him more than he cared to admit.

Trusting that she had her reasons, Draco decided that he would stay at Hogwarts this Christmas and continue his work. He had also procured a bottle of poisoned mead from Rosmerta the night before and couldn't decide whether to use it on Dumbledore or drink it himself.

Draco had sent correspondence to his mother that morning before class, telling her that he was incredibly behind in his assignments and that he would be staying at Hogwarts this break to catch up on work and help his new Potions master, Horace Slughorn, brew a supply of stock potions for the upcoming term.

This formality was included in case the note was intercepted. She would know why he truly wasn't coming home and what he was really working on. Hopefully she hadn't heard about the Katie Bell incident. Could Snape have been right? Had it really had "Malfoy" written all over it?

Time was what Draco needed most. He needed time alone and time to come up with a new plan, so he had run from Potter's fumbling Potions attempt to the Room of Requirement and had remained hidden away, trying unsuccessfully to reclaim that elusive spark of an idea that had been on the tip of his mind for months. And when he thought about it, had he ever actually been close to the solution? For a time, he thought he had been. Now it seemed certain that he had not.

Draco undid the top button of his trousers and slouched back against the cabinet, allowing himself space to breath before dinner. He supposed, at the very least, he needed to show up that evening or people would begin to grow suspicious of his absences.

Granted, the Great Hall had not been a place of respite since vomiting waffles and half the contents of the Hogwarts kitchens in front of the entire student body, but still, he had to face them all at some point. Plus, Winky told him they were having Shephard's Pie, which, despite its bourgeois beginnings, Draco secretly loved.

His trousers still felt uncomfortably tight, so he unbuttoned two more buttons. Winky would need a stern talking-to about her cleaning charms. The trousers may have been neatly pressed, but she was obviously miscasting the charm since they seemed to be steadily shrinking, along with everything else in his closet.

Draco lazily stuffed his notes back into his school bag and pulled out the creased article about Katie Bell that he had torn from the Daily Prophet. He unfolded it and looked at the image of the girl standing proudly in her Quidditch robes, holding her broomstick at her side like a staff. Her eyes seemed to bore into Draco's in desperate accusation before flicking to the side where she waved excitedly and mouthed "Hi, Mom!"

Draco had watched this photographic procession several times a day since the article had come out. The article discussed her school grades (good), Quidditch abilities (excellent), and the volunteer work she had done at the St. Mungo's Children's Ward for the last few summers. She had been planning to become a Pediatric Mediwitch after completion of her NEWTS this upcoming Spring, but now . . .

Draco swallowed hard and scanned the article, his eyes falling on the familiar words "possibly terminal," that he had underlined with his thumbnail, forming a dent on the page. "May never wake up," and "likelihood of brain trauma," were also underlined, just in case Draco found himself inclined to forget.

He read on, though he could have recited the article by memory.

" _She is like my sister," said eight-year old Katharine Mehall, a prior resident of St. Mungos, currently in remission for a rare blood disorder. "She used to say we were Katie 1 and Katie 2. Whenever I was scared or going through painful treatments, she would hold my hand and tell me that angels were watching over me and that I would be safe. Katie's my angel."_

_Roger Bell, 1994 graduate of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, gave his tearful testimony. "Katie is strong. She was always stronger than me. When she gets knocked down, she gets back up and tries again. Kate will come out of this. She has to. She's my baby sister. I need her to be okay." Roger declined to comment further. Bell's parents were unable to be reached for an interview, requesting privacy for their family during this difficult time._

Feeling sick with guilt, but determined, Draco re-folded the article and placed it gently in his school bag. This time he would be more careful. He would do it _right_ and his carelessness and cowardice would not cause anyone else to be hurt.

At least she wasn't dead.

She should have been. She wasn't.

Draco fought back tears at the bittersweet thought.

….

….

….

"I think we need to do more research." Hermione was frowning at Harry. She had asked him what he had planned to do to retrieve Slughorn's memory and his only response was a delayed 'Um.'

"Research for what, Hermione?" Ron poked at his peas with a fork, looking decidedly put-out with the green vegetables. "What book is going to tell us whether or not Riddle managed to make seven of the damn things? It's all speculation. Dumbledore's speculation."

"Yes, but—"

"Even with Slughorn's memory," Harry interrupted, "we likely _still_ won't know for certain. The tampered memory I saw didn't look like Riddle was about to reveal any master plans. He was just asking questions."

"Then, forgive me, mate," Ron said. "Why are we going to all of this trouble?"

"Good question," said Harry. "I've wondered that myself."

Hermione set her fork down gently and put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Well, maybe if we did some _research_ , then it would help to confirm some of Dumbledore's theory or at the very least give us an idea of where to look once we decide that the number _is_ seven."

Harry nodded slowly. She was right. They could be doing that in the meantime. Well, Hermione could do it in the meantime. Harry wasn't about to waste his time pouring over books in the library when he wasn't certain of what they were even looking for. "Hermione, you are more than welcome to try looking, if you think you have an idea."

Hermione smiled brightly. The prospect of endless reading always brought light to her day. "I'm glad you agree!"

"Dumbledore seems to think we should focus on important objects that belonged to the Hogwarts' Founders."

"But that's only four," said Ron. "And didn't you say Dumbledore thought one of them was You-Know-Who's diary? How are we going to find out about something like that? Certainly history books aren't going to write about You-Know-Who's secret photo albums, or childhood pets or the first Galleon he ever earned. How are we supposed to know what other garbage is special to that git?"

Hermione's eyebrows drew together, deep in thought and she mouthed something under her breath.

Ron widened his eyes and stage whispered to Harry behind his hand. "I think she's thinking, mate, look out!"

"Sh!" Hermione waved a hand in his face. "Shut up, Ron. Just—shush—for a minute."

Ron looked at Harry and mouthed, "Like I said . . look out!"

"Say what you said again, Ron," Hermione murmured, still frowning down at her fingers and shaking her head slightly as though working out a calculation.

"I think she's thinking?"

"No! The other thing, about You-Know-Who." She fixed Ron with an intense gaze.

"Um," he faltered. "I just said that history books aren't going to tell us about You-Know-Who's favorite possessions?" She looked unsatisfied, so Ron continued on slowly, waiting for her to stop him when he reached whatever she was looking for. "Like his first Galleon earned or his favorite childhood pet or—"

"That's it!" she cried, slamming her hands onto the table.

Harry widened his eyes at her and then Ron. "You want us to find Voldemort's favorite childhood pet?"

Ron laughed uneasily. "Uh, Hermione? You know the bloke is, like, seventy years old, right?"

"Though one could never tell by his creamy complexion," quipped Harry, then made a face.

"No! His pet!" She whispered, excitedly. "That big snake he always has with him."

"Nagini?" Harry asked. Ron shuddered and Harry knew he was remembering when the snake attacked his father.

"Yes! Nagini!" Hermione whispered again. Her face was alight with her new idea.

"But," Ron protested, "It's alive, though. Can one of those things be alive?"

They both looked to Harry. He shrugged. "I don't know. I could ask Dumbledore, I guess."

"Or, I could look it up in a book," Hermione said with the same self-important air that was so annoying when they were eleven, but was now simply endearing.

"Voldemort is able to possess Nagini," Harry mused, reaching for his glass of pumpkin juice.

Hermione and Ron gave him an uneasy look and Harry pointed ruefully to his scar. He didn't want to mention his fear that Voldemort also seemed able to possess _him_ at times and that Harry himself had been in Nagini's head when he struck Mr. Weasley.

"And," said Hermione, looking carefully at Ron. Ron was focusing on his peas again which were now in the shape of a circle with a meat-blob center. "Voldemort was also able to possess that Diary."

The unspoken thought seemed to linger between the three of them in the air like static. Harry gave in, his voice sounding more defensive than he had intended. "And he is also able to possess me."

The din of voices in the Great Hall seemed to rise around them, filled with the cheerful sounds of students eating and discussing school projects and Quidditch. Harry felt woefully disconnected from his classmates amidst talk of soul possession and the possibility that an evil wizard's soul fragment was somehow lodged inside of Harry.

"Hey, mate!" cried Seamus. "Think fast!"

Harry blinked out of his bubble just in time to see a pea catapult from a spoon and nail him right in the nose. Seamus and Parvati roared with laughter as Seamus reloaded his spoon with another pea and Parvati pointed out the next victim.

"Oh, get Draco Malfoy!" Parvati snickered, pointing to the blonde who was toddling through the Great Hall toward the Slytherin Table carrying a gallon-sized container of ice cream.

"Nah," Seamus said. "Looks like the git's had one too many peas lately anyway."

As he said this, Harry glanced over and watched Malfoy snatch a roll out of a bread basket on the table and tear an enormous bite from it before sitting.

Hermione looked over at Malfoy, appearing grateful for the interruption. "Hmm, he does look like he's put on some weight, doesn't he?"

"Well," Lavender said, "he was getting terribly thin. I think he looks healthier."

"Healthier?" Ron laughed. "He looks like a pasty dough-boy!"

"Ron!" Hermione scolded.

"Hermione!" Ron cried. "He's made fun of my mother's weight for years!"

"Maybe it's the Quidditch thing?" Dean wondered aloud. "He hasn't played a game this year. No exercise?"

'Or maybe it's the eating thing," Harry muttered and wished he hadn't.

"Why are you yapping about another boy's weight, anyway?" Hermione asked. "You sound like a bunch of old biddies."

"You have to admit though," said Seamus. "It doesn't sit on him right. It's like a layer of fat jiggling around on his skinny bird bones."

"That's enough," Neville said quietly.

Everyone stopped and looked at him. He was looking at Malfoy, too, but there was no humor in his eyes. Harry remembered that people used to make fun of Neville's weight—Malfoy included—when he was younger. Come to think of it, Neville had really grown into himself over the last few years. He was taller and, while not muscular, his baby fat had grown into something that suited him well. One could almost call the boy handsome, in a rugged, clumsy sort of way. Not pretty handsome, like Malfoy, or buff handsome like Charlie Weasley, but his awkwardness suited him and he seemed comfortable in his own skin. Even some of the girls were taking notice, especially, and oddly enough, some of the 4th year Slytherin girls. Their merciless teasing seemed to hold a quality of pigtail pulling that Neville hadn't quite caught on to yet.

Harry remembered the invitation that Slughorn had told him to give to Malfoy. Surely Malfoy would love a chance to be included and brag about his family's conquests and money. He had seethed with jealousy when he was not invited to join the Slug Club in September. Harry remembered him bragging to the professor about his grandfather, but apparently Abraxas Malfoy's reputation was not enough to make up for Lucius' fall from grace. At the very least, Malfoy was being invited based on his own merit. He would probably like that. Harry would catch him after dinner, before he slipped away and off the map again.

Come to think of it, Malfoy hadn't been to a meal in weeks. Where was he getting all of his food? Certainly his mother wasn't sending him that many sweets?

Ron nudged him back to reality. He realized he'd been staring at Malfoy for quite some time, transfixed by his insatiable appetite.

"What, Harry? You think he knows something?"

Harry shrugged and watched Malfoy dig greedily into his dessert.

"Maybe he knows where the Horcruxes are hidden?" Harry mused, trying to tie his fascination with Malfoy into the prior conversation, even though it didn't really make any sense. Malfoy wouldn't know anything about Horcruxes.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, lowering his voice. "Maybe he ate them."

Harry laughed and Hermione gave another indignant "Ron!"

One more day until Slughorn's Party, Harry thought. Two more days until everyone left Hogwarts for Christmas. Two more days until Harry needed to get that memory before Ron went ahead with his plan. Harry was starting to think the Imperius Curse might be the only way, but he wasn't going to let Ron do it. Harry would have to do it himself. He'd do it right after Slughorn's party while everyone was too liquored up to notice.

….

….

….

Draco heaved a sigh and pushed away his third plate of dessert. While he'd gotten his Slytherins back on his side by falsely bearing confidence, it was simply too exhausting to keep up the act. Feeling depressed and lethargic, he waved a clumsy goodbye and stood to leave.

"Where are you going?" Crabbe asked, looking slightly miffed that Draco had nicked Daphne's dessert before him.

Draco stretched, which allowed his constricting trousers a blessed moment away from digging into his skin. He tugged on his waist band through the folds of his robes. "Nowhere."

"Is this about—"

"I'm going nowhere. Don't ask. Don't worry about it." Draco turned quickly from Crabbe before he lost his temper. It wouldn't be fair. Crabbe was only trying to help.

Draco strode from the Great Hall, lost in thought when a hand grabbed his shoulder. He recoiled with a shocked, "Ah!"

"Malfoy."

Oh great God.

Draco turned slowly to face Potter who was standing purposefully with his shoulders back. Draco put his shoulders back, too. "Come to admonish me for truancy, Potter? Or are you on duty tonight to follow me? Let's see, tatty red trainers, check. Fierce look of determination, check. Invisibility cloak—"

"Oh, come off it, Malfoy," Potter said. He reached into his bag and pulled out a gaudy envelope. A shower of confetti escaped a creased corner and fell to the floor by Potter's feet.

Draco raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Oh, for _me?"_

"Actually," Potter passed the envelope to Draco and then started digging into his bag. "This one you'll like, but you need to promise to use it only if you really need it."

Draco crossed his arms. "I'm not promising anything." That damn Potter thought he was so smart, having Draco make promises and then teasing him with his own curiosity.

Potter shrugged. "Fine. Then I'll keep it. Merlin knows I could use a Calming Draught the next time I find myself in your company."

Despite his head telling him to shut up, Draco cried out, "Ooh! Really?"

"Malfoy . . ."

"Okay, okay, Potter. I _promise_ to only use it if I really need it. I swear." Draco crossed his fingers behind his back and gave Potter a solemn nod. He'd use it whenever he sodding well felt like it.

"And you can't—"

"I know, I know," Draco cut him off with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I won't drink with it. I've learned my lesson. Honestly, Potter."

Potter gave him a suspicious look, then reached into his bag and pulled out a vial of the Draught of Peace. Draco reached for it, but Potter snatched it back. "I'm only giving this to you because you brought those hellebore berries."

"Potter! You used my hellebore berries? Those cost a fortune!"

Potter's eyes widened. "But—you—you left them on the floor!" he sputtered, looking wildly indignant. "You—what was I supposed to do?"

"Potter, I was kidding. Of course you used them. And made a superior potion, no doubt." Draco raised his eyes in challenge.

"Actually," Potter grinned and Draco felt the corners of his own mouth turning up against his will. "I did. Thanks to you."

"And I'm sure Sluggy sang your praises for the millionth time."

Potter shrugged. "Well," he said. "He started to. But then I told him it was your idea to use the fresh berries and that you'd even brought them yourself."

Potter had stuck up for him to Slughorn?

"And then," Potter continued, smirking slightly, "he was so impressed that he insisted I give you that." Potter nudged his head toward the envelope in Draco's hand. "Seems to think he underestimated you."

Slughorn was _impressed_ with Draco?

Potter paused for a moment and looked at Draco. Draco could feel himself flushing with pleasure at the compliment. "Well, he did." Draco turned the envelope over in his hands a few times, trying to convince himself that it wasn't all one of Potter's pranks.

"In fact," Potter drawled, "Slughorn was _so_ impressed with your idea to use fresh berries that he would like to extend to you the distinct _honor,"_ Potter dragged this word out, "of joining his Slug Club. And he'd like to invite you to his holiday party tomorrow." Potter nodded at the envelope again, then crossed his arms to wait for Draco's response.

Draco felt an inordinate amount of pride at the recognition of his talent. Warring with that pride was the bitter feeling of resentment at having been passed over the first time. "Well," he sniffed. "Maybe I don't _want_ to be in his sorry little Slug Club. It can't mean much if he accepted the likes of Longbottom, can it?"

Potter laughed, good-naturedly, which Draco found surprising. "I figured you say that. Still sore that the Malfoy name didn't open that door for you?"

Draco gave Potter a shrewd look. Potter was right. The Malfoy name _hadn't_ opened that door for him. But the door was now open and it was because of Draco. Not because of Draco _Malfoy._

"Come on, Malfoy," Potter said, giving him a friendly nudge. "At least the git was right about one thing."

"What's that?" Draco rubbed his arms where Potter had touched him.

"You _do_ have talent." Potter gave an awkward shrug and smiled at Draco. Draco could feel a blush spreading across his cheeks.

He clucked in disdain. "Is this your way of apologizing for calling me fat?"

"Uh, no." Potter looked chagrined and Draco felt slightly mollified. "I will never apologize for that because I know for a fact that you will never accept it." He adjusted his schoolbag on his shoulder then looked up at Draco and very seriously said, "I don't like to waste my time."

Draco laughed out loud. "You're right. It _would_ be a waste of your time. You four-eyed freak." Draco figured he needed to sneak at least one insult in there, to balance the scales a bit.

Potter laughed and put his hands up. "Fine. I deserved that."

"Yes. You did. You deserve more than that and I intend to give it to you."

Potter paused. "Do you?" And when he said it, it was filled with implications that Draco's overloaded mind struggled to address. His body, on the other hand, had no qualms in responding and Draco shifted, fervently praying his too-tight trousers would not betray him.

"So are you going tomorrow?" Potter asked again.

Draco tapped on his chin, thoughtfully. "Hand over that Calming Draught and I'll think about it." Draco always drove a hard bargain. Answers never came free.

"Merlin—I'm going to! Calm down." Potter stopped talking then and pressed his mouth together. Draco raised an eyebrow in response.

"Mmm hmm," Draco murmured.

"Come on," Potter said. "It won't be the same without you."

Draco bit his lip to keep from smiling. 'Really?' he wanted to ask, just to hear Potter say it again. Instead he wiped the smile off his face and stood up straighter. "Fine," he sniffed. "I'll go. I suppose I can spare an evening for poor company. They'd be lucky to have me, anyway."

Potter finally handed him the Draught of Peace potion. "They would," he said.

This decent conversation with Potter had Draco feeling off-kilter. Potter had defended him to Slughorn. Potter wanted him to go to this party. It didn't make sense. Potter was supposed to be avoiding Draco. What he'd done to him after the Chapel was remarkably cruel. If he were Potter he would have smashed his own face in by now.

Draco rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "So, um. . ."

"Right."

They stood awkwardly for a moment, both unsure of what to say and hyper aware of the uneasy truce that had settled between them.

"Right," Potter repeated.

Draco rolled his eyes then and huffed. "Potter, why are you being so nice to me?"

Potter tensed immediately and glared at him. Draco regretted the question immediately, finding that he missed the shrugging, grinning Potter. "I shouldn't be," Potter grumbled.

"No!" Draco agreed, waving his arms wildly. "You _shouldn't_ be!"

Potter scowled and Draco wondered if he'd pushed him too far. "Well, _Malfoy_ ," he spat. "I don't have an answer right now. When you can rationally and truthfully explain to me why you did to me what you did, then maybe I will be able to come up with an answer. But, for God's sakes, don't ask me to be open and honest when we both know you're seconds away from running off with that envelope, downing that Calming Draught and working on your bloody, loathsome _task_."

Draco widened his eyes and took a step back. He had not expected all of that, or any of it. And Potter was completely correct in his prediction for Draco's evening, which was a bit jarring in itself. When had Potter gotten to know him so well? Draco had brutalized him for five years and was desperately trying to push him away now, but it seemed that Draco's efforts were completely pointless. Potter was here. He knew everything. He suspected what Draco was. But he was still here, back again, like a faithful dog.

Draco didn't deserve his goodwill and he didn't deserve his faith. And Potter bloody _knew_ all of this, too. And yet, here he was, affected, hurt, but back again.

Draco just couldn't scare him off. And he was no longer sure he wanted to.

He wanted to . . .

Draco jerked back when he realized he'd laid a hand on Potter's shoulder. Potter was giving him a very strange look.

Draco blinked and swallowed hard. "Okay then," he said with a curt nod, waving his hand in the air. "I've got things to do, you know, Potter. Potions to take, loathsome tasks to accomplish, that sort of thing."

"Right."

"Right. I guess I'll see you tomorrow then, Potter."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Of course, Malfoy. I look forward to it."

Draco turned quickly to hide the giddy smile that had suddenly and unexplainably broken over his face. He pressed his lips together and hurried to the Room of Requirement before anyone could see.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review! It's summer vacation for me now (I'm a teacher) so I should have a bit more time for writing! But please, please review! And thank you so much to those of you who have. If you're reading this, just do a quick review, a "hi!" or "hello!" I like to know all of my readers. Have a great weekend! Kristen

"Wow, Gin," Harry murmured appreciatively. "You look great."

Ginny beamed at the compliment and tossed her set red curls to the side. She was wearing a thin, golden sheath dress, cinched at the waist with a deep, green satin bow. The dress was simple but the contrast to her coloring and features was striking. "Why, thank you, Harry," she said. "80% off the five galleon rack at Gladrags."

"Oh," said Harry, guessing this was a good deal.

"See," she continued and pulled the sash up to reveal a giant tear in the golden fabric. "Damaged! But with the sash—and it _needs_ one, anyway—who could tell?"

If Ron had been in the room, Harry guessed he would have told Ginny to stop bragging about her used dress and damaged goods. Ron tended to be easily embarrassed about things like that while Ginny took after Molly. A good deal was something to be proud of. It was the sign of a crafty witch for not only finding and seizing the deal, but thinking of creative ways to make it work.

"Nice, Gin!" Harry said. "You look like a million galleons—not just the dress, either."

Ginny blushed and reached forward, ruffling Harry's hair. He hadn't bothered styling it, anyway, so the move could only serve as an improvement. "You don't look half bad yourself, Potter." She smiled at him fondly and linked her arm into his.

Harry was wearing a pair of expensive, black dress robes that Hermione insisted he order from _The Gentleman's Corner_ , a catalogue she found abandoned in the Common Room. Harry was initially skeptical as he perused the vandalized catalogue of handsomely dressed models with marker mustaches and blacked out teeth, but Hermione helped him to navigate through the flashier outfits to find a classic suited style. It was an "investment," she had said.

Hermione and Ron joined them. Ron was dressed in Harry's old dress robes from fourth year to which they had applied a considerable lengthening charm. It was still a vast improvement from the frilly, ancient hand-me-downs Ron had worn to the Yule Ball and the robes suited him nicely. Hermione had also picked up a used dress at Gladrags and wore a velvet sleeveless cowl-neck piece in a deep crimson. The crushed fabric caught the light as she moved and the effect was very festive. She and Ginny had thought it cute and spirited to wear tiny, matching sprigs of holly that they had charmed into hair clips. Hermione had placed hers atop her pinned-up waves and Ginny had tucked hers behind her ear. Ginny tried to get Ron and Harry to wear them on their lapels, but they politely declined. Well, Harry politely declined. Ron insisted he wasn't "a damn girl, for Merlin's sakes!" then followed that comment with an emphatic, "Women."

Harry was mildly nervous about his plan for the night. He was fairly certain that he could carry it out and get away with it. The problem was, he just didn't want to. It didn't sit well with his Gryffindor sense of morality.

Slughorn would undoubtedly get himself good and drunk. As the evening came to an end, Harry would cast the Imperius Curse on the old man, then ask to speak with him in private. They would go into another room, Harry would plead his case and Slughorn, of course, would readily provide him with the Horcrux memory this time. Harry would release Slughorn from the curse later in the night as the man was sleeping off his stupor and then, when Slughorn awoke in the morning, all he would remember was drinking too much and giving Harry that memory. He would convince himself it was just a slip of his liquor-loosened inhibitions and that would be that. By then, Harry would _have_ the damn memory and wouldn't have to worry about Obliviating the man, either. In fact, it was better that he didn't cast Obliviate because then Slughorn would still remember giving the memory away and would think it was a result of his own free will.

He frowned. Could the Imperius Curse be sensed in someone's memory?

Harry shook his head. It didn't matter. He was doing this or Ron was doing this and Harry would _not_ let Ron do this. It was Harry's mission.

The four made their way past the curious and jealous stares of the other girls in the Common Room. The boys who hadn't been invited appeared wholly unconcerned. Neville, who was seated by the fire in his navy blue dress robes, waved goodbye to Dean and Seamus and jogged after Harry and Ron. "Hey," he called. "Wait up!"

Harry had thought Neville was no longer in the Slug Club, but apparently Slughorn had given him an invitation all the same.

"Oh, Neville," Hermione gushed. "You look so handsome!"

Neville smiled shyly and his ears went red. "Thanks Hermione," he said to the floor. "You look nice, too."

Ron raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think there was something going on between my girl and my good mate." Hermione giggled and Neville widened his eyes in distress.

"No, no! Not Hermione!" Neville cried, sounding startled. He held up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Ginny looks nice, too," he added. Ginny smirked and Ron raised his other eyebrow. Neville balked. "Not Ginny either!"

They all laughed.

"Sorry, Harry," said Neville.

Harry laughed, too, but felt confused. "Sorry for what? Ginny looks nice." Ginny gave Harry a playful shove.

Neville looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, mate. But I wasn't trying to move in on her or—"

Oh. _Oh._ Neville thought . . . ? "No! No, we're not—" Harry felt Ginny tense by his side and Ron gave him an unreadable expression. "Um. No harm done, Neville! Ginny and Hermione look great! Ron was just—"

"Being an arse," Ginny finished.

"Yeah, that," Harry agreed. His throat felt suddenly dry.

"So, who _are_ you taking, Neville?" Hermione asked, likely sensing the tension in the air.

Neville looked relieved, then mortified. "Oh, um. It's—"

"You got a date, Nev?" Ron pressed, grinning. "Who?"

Neville bit his lip and stuck his hand in his pockets. "Well, you'll see. . ."

Ron gave Harry a look and Harry, realizing that he was supposed to respond to Neville's revelation, returned Ron's look a second too late. Ron frowned slightly and Harry looked down at his shiny, black shoes.

They continued walking. Hermione and Neville carried the conversation while Harry fell into a contemplative silence with Ginny at his side. Did Neville think Ginny and Harry were together? Did _Ginny_ think Ginny and Harry were together?

No. She had asked Harry to the party by saying that they were only _friends_. Neville was just being Neville. No one thought that they were together, right?

_Right?_

Harry suddenly felt the warmth of Ginny's body pressed against him and it felt less reassuring than it had before. His hands felt sweaty and he tried to wipe them on his robes. He reached up to loosen his collar a bit with his left hand.

"You okay, Harry?" Ginny asked, looking concerned.

"Huh . . . what?" Harry took this opportunity to shrug out of her linked arm to readjust his tie. "Just. . . a bit hot."

Ginny raised her eyebrows and smirked. "Oh, am I making you hot?"

Harry widened his eyes and looked up from his tie. "Are you— _what_?" Harry realized that his response may have sounded a bit insulting, but he couldn't believe she had just asked him that question. Maybe Neville was right. Ginny was trying to _flirt_ with him! Harry wasn't sure how he felt about that. No, he _was_ sure. He felt uncomfortable and not in a good way.

Ginny started laughing. "Get your head out of the gutter, Potter." She punched his arm playfully. "That's not what I meant. You let go of my arm so I figured I was making you hot. Not _hot_ like _bothered_ , but—"

Harry relaxed a fractional amount then put up a hand to stop Ginny. "Okay. Got it. That's—" Harry let out a shaky sigh that sounded more like hysterical laughter. Then, suddenly he couldn't stop laughing. Nothing was funny. Ginny was looking at him strangely. What was he _doing_?

Ginny grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Merlin. _Harry_. Relax."

Relax. Right.

"Harry, why are you getting all worked up?"

Why _was_ he getting all worked up? It seemed plain as day that Ginny was not trying to make a move on him. Neville had put that ridiculous idea out there and then Harry started to misinterpret everything Ginny was doing. Ginny was still the same old Ginny. She may have been in love with him as a child and he may have had a tiny crush on her last year, but they were closer now. Friends. _Just_ friends. Ginny was solid. She wouldn't try to trick him into a date or make a move on him. If anything, her feelings were always more transparent than anyone else's. When she had liked Harry before, she had made no secret about it.

But at the same time, why was Harry suddenly so opposed to her making a move on him? He had liked her once before. . .

Harry shook his head. It just felt _wrong._ Maybe because she was like family to him. He could acknowledge that she was very attractive and that she did, indeed, look very nice in her dress, but nothing about that seemed to excite Harry in a romantic way.

"Harry!"

"What?" He looked up at her and blinked.

"Stop thinking so much. Let's go." Ginny motioned for Harry to follow. He walked behind her, listening to the echoing clack of her green heels on the stone floor.

….

….

….

Draco swallowed the last of his Calming Draught.

His nerves seemed to loosen as the tangled knots in his stomach were gently untied, nudged along by the peaceful potion hands that slipped through his system, calming everything in their path.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief and closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the feel of his slow, even breaths, his stilling hands and the lack of need to dart paranoid glances in all directions.

He opened his eyes again and straightened his steel-gray designer dress robes from London. While Draco was partial to all things Wizard, he felt that dress _robes,_ as such, were a bit outdated, even for a Pureblood, and stuck with high-end, fitted suits from a London shop that outfitted ridiculously wealthy Muggles and Wizards, alike. The half-length cape that completed the ensemble allowed Draco to wear what was essentially a Muggle outfit whilst retaining the look of a wizard. He kept the cape folded over his arm as an accessory. Draco wasn't fifty years old. He wasn't actually going to wear a _cape_.

Although, he thought, as he peered down at the odd way the material bunched at his sides and the stretched gapping of the buttons, maybe the cape would hide certain _things_ that Draco would rather not leave on display. Like nearly a stone's weight gain in several weeks' time.

Draco scowled at his pudgy reflection and wrapped the cape around himself, rolling his eyes at the overall effect. He had finally admitted to himself that perhaps Winky was not at fault for the shrinking of his wardrobe. Remembering how Potter had called him fat, Draco had dragged himself to the Hospital Wing earlier that day and crept onto the scale.

When he stood on the scale and adjusted the weights, he shook his head in disbelief and then annoyance. The scale was clearly broken.

Draco had climbed off the scale, cast a Balancing Charm, tested it with a conjured hand weight and, once satisfied with its accuracy, tried again.

Not surprisingly, the weight was the same and Draco, feeling disgusted, slipped his shoes back on and hurried out of the Hospital Wing. Malfoys were _never_ anything but fit and svelte. He was a Seeker, for Christ's sakes! Well, he _used_ to be . . .

Maybe he needed more exercise. Yeah.

He'd been serious about Quidditch his entire life and had never had a weight problem before he quit the team. That had to be it.

Draco had sighed, made a solemn vow to fly more and headed to the kitchens for a second helping of lunch.

Now, as he looked at his protruding stomach and slight double chin in his dormitory mirror, he resolved to start his flying regimen first thing tomorrow morning.

Draco assessed the rest of his reflection. The circles under his eyes seemed to have diminished slightly, though he had knocked himself out with a dose of the Draught of Peace the night before, so it could be the result of a full night's rest.

His face still looked handsome, despite the layer of fat around it. His eyes crinkled slightly more when he practiced his trademark smirk, giving his face a less-intimidating and decidedly more merry look.

Though, at the moment, Draco's eyes hung heavily lidded. He knew this was a result of the extra dose of Draught of Peace he had just taken, but he wasn't worried. So what if he looked a little "potioned up?" Everyone would just think he'd been drinking. Plus, the side effect would be worth it. Draco would be calm, cool and collected as he went through with his plan.

Rosmerta had told him that Professor Slughorn had ordered a special type of Candied Peppermint Mead from her. It was well known that only two wizards in London drank Candied Peppermint Mead: Albus Dumbledore and Aberforth Dumbledore. The likelihood of the mead ending up in Aberforth's hands was very slim. Albus Dumbledore, however, received multiple bottles of the limited edition mead as gifts each year.

Draco would find this gift and replace it with the bottle of poisoned mead he had in his pocket.

The night before, Draco had visited Slughorn in his office to personally accept the invitation and to give Slughorn a small gift as a token of his appreciation. Slughorn had beamed indulgently and toddled over to a small Christmas tree in the room. He placed Draco's gift in a pile of presents, promising to unwrap it tomorrow at the party. Draco could see another pile of gifts behind Slughorn's desk. These ones were half wrapped and sat beside a bag of ribbons, spell-o-tape and scissors. These were clearly the "outgoing gifts" _from_ Slughorn and among them was a bottle clearly marked "Morjoram's Candied Peppermint Mead."

Draco took a mental picture of the label, recreated it in his dorm room, and now had a nearly identical bottle shrunken and concealed in his pocket. The only difference between the bottles was that one was a terrible combination of candy, peppermint and buttery mead, while the other contained a terribly powerful and deadly poison called Cyndorant, lethal to humans in even the smallest of doses.

Draco chuckled lightly to himself and tapped the bottle in his pocket. No more mistakes. No more worrying. Perhaps he could even go home for Christmas after all. . .

When doubt crept into his mind, he pushed it away, steeling himself for his second and hopefully final—no, _definitely_ final—attempt on Dumbledore's life. It had to work. It _had_ to.

Draco had once read that humans could become accustomed to anything after a long enough period of time. He had never truly believed it. Being raised amongst Pureblood aristocracy, he was used to a lush, demure and worry-free existence. Draco figured he could never live comfortably any other way. Now he wasn't so sure. Perhaps the statement had merit, after all. At the beginning of the school year, Draco had been sickeningly nervous about his task and the idea of planning a murder and taking a life was one he could barely wrap his head around. When he saw Katie Bell with the necklace a few weeks ago it finally hit him that this was _real_. He was going to kill someone. As a result, Draco had become a complete wreck. But now . . . now attempted murder felt like old hat. No big deal. Plotting murder was just an average part of Draco's day, just like he had joked to Potter in such a blasé fashion in the Great Hall.

_Potions to take, loathsome tasks to accomplish_ . . .

He felt momentarily sickened by his acquired nonchalance. It was wrong and inhuman. He knew he should be more concerned, but, for some reason, he just wasn't. The Draught of Peace, too, had taken away his worries and Draco felt numb. _This must be what Death Eaters feel like_ , Draco thought, hollowly. This must be how seemingly normal people like his father and his friends' parents felt when they killed and tortured and maimed all night only to return to their sleeping wives and condemned children.

It seemed Draco had made it to their ranks. For the first time, he finally felt like a Death Eater.

And he only kind of cared.

Draco bit his lip, and turned resolutely toward the Slytherin Common Room to find Pansy and head to Slughorn's Christmas Party.

….

….

….

Harry stood beside a gobsmacked Ron and watched the shocking scene that was Neville Longbottom and his date, Astoria Greengrass. Neville place a gentlemanly kiss on the hand of the fourth year Slytherin girl. She returned his gesture with a disinterested look, then reached up and flattened his cowlick. Neville said something that made the striking blonde giggle. She leaned in toward Neville and whispered something in his ear that made the awkward boy blush furiously.

"Wow," Harry breathed.

"Weird," said Ron.

"Undeserving bastard," said another voice. Harry and Ron turned around to see Malfoy and Parkinson, who seemed to be watching the two with the same strange, perverse curiosity.

"It's like a train wreck," Parkinson muttered. "It's so horrifying, I can't look away."

Ron balled up his fists, "Your f _ace_ is like a train wreck, Park—"

"You came," Harry interrupted, speaking directly to Malfoy. Ron stopped talking and stared at them. Malfoy looked well-put together, Harry thought. It was a nice colored suit. Dark gray. It brought out Malfoy's eyes a bit and his hair . . .

Malfoy noticed Harry looking at his hair and raised his eyebrows. "If I didn't know any better, Potter, I'd say you were happy to see me." Malfoy gave one more raise of his eyebrows to Harry, then wrapped his fingers around Parkinson's wrist and dragged the girl away.

Harry's mouth felt exceptionally dry. He took a sip of his champagne and watched Malfoy head toward the desserts table.

"Doubly weird," Ron said, cringing. He looked at Harry. Harry was watching Malfoy. "Well, stop looking at him!" Ron cried.

"Huh?" Harry asked, noticing the slight flutter of Malfoy's cape as Parkinson pulled away from his grasp and stomped off.

Ron gave Harry a strange look. "Quit looking at him, Harry."

"Oh."

"He probably gets off on it," Ron grumbled into his drink.

Harry looked back at Ron. "What do you mean by that?"

Ron shrugged then turned from Harry in search of Hermione. Ginny had disappeared a while ago. Harry hadn't had dessert yet, so he headed over to the dessert table and stepped behind the blonde.

"I am," Harry said to Malfoy's back, feeling slightly emboldened by his third glass of champagne.

Malfoy whipped around and his cape followed a second later. He was holding a plate with raspberry tart. He pulled a fork out of his mouth and swallowed. "You are what?"

"I'm happy to see you," said Harry.

Malfoy blinked then pressed his lips together. He seemed to be fighting them for control. His lips won when a small, amused smile broke across his face. "Are you?" he asked, looking down at his plate, then biting his bottom lip. He reached his fork to his tart and took another bite.

"Yeah," said Harry. Causing Malfoy to smile made Harry feel inexplicably proud. "Are you happy to see me?" Harry asked and immediately cringed. What a stupid and presumptuous question.

"No."

Malfoy snickered and turned his back to him. He picked up another raspberry tart from the table then turned and held it out to Harry. "Tart?"

"Oh. Er. No thanks, um—"

"I wasn't offering, Potter." Malfoy dug into the confection and took a bite. "I was calling you a tart."

Harry was sipping champagne and nearly spit it back into his glass. "What?"

"Oh, don't play dumb," said Malfoy. "You're flirting with me."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, feeling embarrassed and then angry. Was Malfoy right? Is that what Harry had been doing? Harry quickly set down his champagne glass on the dessert table and took a step back. He'd obviously had enough. His judgment was skewed. "Um, sorry," Harry said, then turned and walked away, wanting to die.

All he'd said was that he was happy to see Malfoy. That wasn't flirting. He would have said the same to Ron.

_But you haven't snogged Ron_ . .

God.

"Harry, there you are!" Ginny bounced up to him. Harry forced himself to smile and reached up to fix one of her curls. Her red locks were hardened from hairspray and Harry had to fiddle with a crunchy piece to get it back into the right slot. He had no desire to run his hands through Ginny's hair. They'd probably get stuck if he tried.

Ginny looked up then and gave Harry a mysterious grin. She pointed at the ceiling and Harry flinched, feeling immediately stupid that flinching was his automatic reaction. "Harry," she said slowly, then batted her eyelashes coyly. "Look where we're standing."

Harry _knew_ where they were standing. Her behavior said it all. Harry glanced reluctantly at the mistletoe that hung like a meddling matchmaker over their heads. Harry sighed and gave her a small smile. "Happy Christmas, Gin," he said.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," she said softly. Harry leaned forward and captured her lips in his, feeling utterly awkward and wishing he had finished that glass of champagne, after all.

He went to pull back, but Ginny reached a hand around to the back of his head and held him in place, moaning suddenly into Harry's mouth. Harry snapped his eyes open and Ginny, sensing his discomfort, stopped trying to deepen the kiss. She opened her eyes and rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand, looking sheepish.

"Um, Ginny. What was—?"

"Sorry, Harry," she said quickly. She swallowed hard and forced out a smile. "It's out of my system. I won't do it again."

Out of her system . . . Did Ginny like him again? Had she _enjoyed_ that kiss? Harry was confused- he'd felt nothing. It was like kissing the back of his hand. It was _nothing_ like kissing Malfoy, for instance.

And there it was again.

Malfoy.

It made Harry remember a conversation he had overhead Aunt Petunia having with Dudley. Harry had forced himself to listen to Petunia despite his rising nausea. "Sparks," she'd said. "When you find that special person, Dudders, you feel sparks. That's how you know."

Harry didn't feel sparks with Ginny. But he felt sparks with Malfoy. He always felt sparks with Malfoy. Sparks that usually led to some sort of explosion, but sparks nonetheless.

"Harry. I said I was sorry," Ginny repeated.

"Oh, um. It's okay. Not a problem."

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Oh good. As long as I haven't caused any _problems_ for you." She turned then and walked away. Harry had the good sense not to follow her. She was the one who had initiated the kiss and gotten all crazy. She was the one who had apologized. Harry hadn't done anything. He had just sort of . . . stood there.

Ugh.

He turned back to the now abandoned dessert table and snatched up his glass of champagne. He took a long swallow and tried to wash the berry-soap taste of lip-gloss out of his mouth.

….

….

….

Draco had done it. It was easy. With Slughorn's office magically enlarged and ridiculously festooned in long, silver streamers with tinsel galore, one could hardly see further ahead than a two foot radius. On top of that, nearly everyone was drinking and dancing and chatting and eating. No one paid any attention to Draco as he snuck off toward Slughorn's desk and carefully switched the bottles of mead.

Wishing the Calming Draught would wear off so he could take a celebratory drink, Draco took a seat in one of the large, red throne-like chairs that lined the side of the dance floor. He watched as happy couples and couples-to-be danced and swayed in each other's arms or snuck off behind the large green velvet curtains for some alone time. Draco had seen Granger and Weasel sneak behind one of the curtains and had made certain to "trip" over the body-shaped lumps when he walked by.

His eyes fell on Potter who was drinking champagne alone. Potter was happy Draco had come. Potter had wanted to see him.

And Potter looked so damn stupid, even in those handsome robes, toddling around by himself, waiting for someone to come and pay attention to him. Hmmm, come to think of it, Potter was _really_ toddling. More like wobbling.

Draco saw a woman with a camera and a notepad fix Potter with a vulturous stare. She began to make her way over to him with a hungry look in her eyes.

Potter was in no state to be giving interviews. Plus, this was supposed to be a Christmas Party, not a press conference.. Slughorn had no shame. That greedy bastard invited press when he knew Potter would be coming . . . probably _because_ Potter was coming. What a fat sod.

Draco jumped out of his chair and made his way over to Potter as quickly as the Calming Draught would allow.

"Potter."

"Malfoy!" Potter grinned, just as the reporter snapped a picture of them. Potter blinked stupidly at the flash bulbs then frowned.

"Mister Potter," the reporter cooed, extending a long, manicured hand. "I'm Tracy Abbott, a dear friend of Professor Slughorn. I've been dying to meet you."

Potter blinked again and shook her hand. He gave Draco a questioning look. Draco suspected that Potter was remembering Draco's role in slipping information to Skeeter during the Triwizard Tournament. Potter must have thought that _Draco_ had brought this woman over to him.

"Pardon me, madam," Draco said, politely. He gave a small bow. "I'm terrible sorry, but I must borrow Mr. Potter. Excuse us."

The woman gave Draco a nasty look. "Who are you?"

Draco pulled himself to his full height and gave the woman a vigorous handshake. "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," he drawled with a smirk. The woman's eyes went wide and she took a step back. "You might have heard of my father, Lucius Malfoy?"

"Er—well, I—"

"Yes, in _fact_ ," Draco continued, "I believe you wrote the article following my father's Azkaban sentencing entitled _Disgraced Ex-Death Eater; The Malfoy Family's Fall from Grace_." The article had come out the day after his father's trial. When the _Daily Prophet_ had arrived during Draco's breakfast last May, everyone single student had turned to look at him, whispering and pointing. Up until that day, Draco had always wished to be the center of attention at Hogwarts. He had secretly envied Potter when articles were written about him-even nasty ones-because that meant that people were talking about him . . . they _cared_. Draco had once foolishly thought that bad press was better than no press.

"Well, you see—"

"Oh, it was a _brilliant_ piece," Draco raved. Potter looked at Draco with slight awe. Draco was about to put on a show for Potter. Sensing this, Potter crossed his arms and watched expectantly. "Brilliant. I loved the factual information about how my mother 'broke down and begged the court for mercy' and the part about that source close to the family that swore I would avenge my father and restore the Malfoy name?"

The woman was sending darting looks about the room for potential help. "All _Prophet_ sources are—"

Draco took a step forward, loving Potter's look of approval and the feeling of putting this cow in her place. "My favorite part?" Draco whispered, "was the part where you warned readers to keep an eye out for my family and told them that if we were seen out in public, readers would be best to err on the side of caution and keep away. Potter, in _particular_ ," and Draco threw an arm around Potter's shoulder, "was warned that I blamed him for my father's incarceration—"

"And you do," Potter pointed out, seriously.

"And I _do!_ " Draco repeated, amiably. "And therefore," he grinned, "I have pressing, urgent matters to discuss with Mister Potter. So, if you don't mind?"

The woman, looking both offended and relieved, shook her head. "No, no, not at all."

Draco smirked. "It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Abbott." Draco lifted one of her hands and raised it to his lips. "Oh hell!" he cried and looked up. "We're under mistletoe." And with that Draco gave her a giant grin and planted a big, smacking kiss on her lips.

A flash bulb went off and Draco was elated to see creepy Colin Creevey holding his own camera, apparently taking pictures for the _Hogwart's Herald._ Tracy Abbot stepped back blinking, looking dazed and mortified. She eyed Colin and his camera warily.

"Hmm," Draco mused aloud. "I wonder what _Prophet_ readers would think about one of their writers kissing such a disgraceful Malfoy. It almost makes you wonder what would happen if another article were written about the Malfoys that shed them in such a light as your last one." Draco shrugged and Potter snickered. "Hmm . . . don't know . . ."

Tracy Abbott pressed her lips together in a scowl.

Draco gave her a slight bow. "It's been a pleasure." He turned to walk away.

"Bye!" Potter said.

Draco grabbed Potter by the wrist and dragged him, laughing, over to the chairs along the edge of the dance floor. The dance floor curved into an L-shape and Draco took him to the farthest edge, an odd little corner with just a few chairs and a square of parquet.

"That," Potter snorted and laughed into his hands, "was _tremendous!_ "

Draco sat proudly and grinned. "That was pretty good, wasn't it?"

Potter's hands were waving wildly in the air. "And the bit with Colin! Merlin! You'd think you'd planned it!" Potter gave Draco a too-close and bleary look. Draco could smell the sweet and heavy scent of champagne on his breath. "You didn' did you?"

"I wish I had. I'll admit. I never thought that camera-wielding weirdo would ever come in handy as more than a punching bag."

"Malfoy . . ." Potter said in a warning voice. "Be nice."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "First of all, I'm _not_ nice. How many times must we go over this?"

"True."

"Second of all, don't be a sodding hypocrite. You know you can't stand the creep. I've seen the looks you give your little _friends_ whenever he walks away."

Potter smirked. "Alright, fine. True again. But still. Colin being a voyeuristic creep did just help you one-up the press."

Draco grimaced. "Are you serious about the voyeur thing? I've seen him hanging around the Quidditch locker rooms . . ."

Potter shuddered. "Well, no proof or anything but . . . er, yeah. You might want to watch out for that. I swear I've seen bright flashes come out of the lockers before."

Draco widened his eyes as a memory hit him of a time after practice in fifth year when he was changing and saw a flash of white light. He had idly wondered if he'd had a stroke. The disease ran on both sides of his family. His mother had had a slight stroke when she was pregnant with Draco, causing her vision to be permanently spotty. Nearly all of his relatives had died of an aneurysm or a stroke (at least those that had died the natural way) and his father had taken potions to thin his blood for years. "Merlin! Urgh! I thought I was having a _stroke!_ "

Champagne sprayed out of Potter's mouth through his open fingers and onto the floor. "A _stroke_!" Potter was choking with laughter. "That _would_ be your first thought, you complete nutter!"

"Yeah, well." Draco shrugged, sheepishly. It did sound pretty stupid now that he had said it out loud.

"You are the most _nervous_ , paranoid individual I have _ever_ met in my life," Potter proclaimed, still snorting with laughter.

"It's called _Anxiety Disorder_ ," Draco huffed, defensively. "And it's a _real_ condition."

"Well, it explains a hell of a lot."

"Shut up, Potter." Draco laughed and the next thing he knew, Potter's warm fingers had wrapped around his own. Draco's fingers instinctively grasped Potter's and for a moment Draco felt like he and Potter were back in the Chapel.

But they were not in the Chapel. They were in the middle of Slughorn's party. What was Potter doing?

Draco stiffened and, sensing this, Potter snatched his hand back as if he'd been burned. "Sorry," Potter breathed, looking mortified. He stared accusingly at his hands, as if they had acted on their own accord. Draco looked at his own hands, pale and white in his lap, still tingling from the touch.

"What was that about?" Draco asked, his voice barely audible.

Potter looked like he wanted to slap himself. He was shaking his head, looking upset. "Fuck. Sorry. I-I don't know why I did that." Potter put a hand to his head and rubbed his temples. "I feel strange."

"Have another glass of champagne, Potter," Draco said with a smirk.

Potter snorted and shoved Draco lightly on the shoulder. "Shut up, areshole." He drank the rest of the glass then gave it a suspicious look. "Hmm. Tricky thing, champagne." Potter wiggled the empty champagne flute between his thumb and forefinger. "So light and fizzy."

Draco took the glass out of his hand and set it on the floor beside him. "Mm, indeed." A Ravenclaw boy dressed as a waiter came over and offered them each another glass of champagne. Draco reluctantly declined, but Potter took another glass, thanking the boy. Draco gave a slight smirk as Potter sipped from the glass.

"What?" Potter asked.

Draco shrugged innocently. "Tricky thing, champagne. Once you start on it, it's hard to stop."

Potter blanched and looked at the glass in his hand. He frowned as if confused to see it there. "Oh . . . what?"

Draco laughed. "Potter, you're pissed."

Potter opened his mouth to deny it, then seemed to give himself an honest evaluation. "You could be right."

"Of course I'm right," Draco said, gently removing the full glass of champagne from Potter's hands and setting it beside the empty glass on the floor. "It's crucial to know your limits," Draco offered, importantly. His father had said this to him many times when Draco had tried to sneak additional glasses of wine with dinner.

Potter gave Draco an incredulous stare. "You're joking, right? Advice on limits coming from _you?"_

Draco bristled slightly at the jab. "It's good advice, Potter. Take it or leave it."

"I'd like to take that champagne back," Potter grumbled, good-naturedly. "Perhaps you should take your own advice, eh, Malfoy?"

"Perhaps I should."

Potter frowned for a moment, the grin falling off his face. "I mean. Really." He looked up at Draco uncertainly.

Draco felt himself growing annoyed. Granted, Draco's display at the Three Broomsticks gave all of Hogwarts fair gossip fodder, but perfect Potter didn't need to get all self-righteous about it. "Fuck off."

Potter rolled his eyes. "I'm not trying to be a prick, Malfoy, I'm just saying-"

"I can take care of myself, Potter. Thanks."

"Funny," Potter said, "I recall you being in dire need of assistance. Had I not been there, you would have vomited on yourself and passed out on the floor of the loo."

Draco felt himself grow hot with embarrassment and irritation. He knew what he had done. Sort of. He didn't need to talk about it. And he certainly didn't want to think about why it had happened. "Well, bully for you, Potter. What do you want, a medal?"

"That's not what I-"

"Perfect Harry Potter. His heroics even extend to helping drunkards in the loo." Draco was getting worked up. This was going to escalate into something ugly very soon. He grit his teeth, bracing himself for Potter's next scathing comment, but it never came.

Potter Accioed his champagne glass and took a long swallow. "You're right," he said after a moment. "I should learn my limits."

Draco gave him a suspicious glare.

"But what's the point of being a teenager if you aren't going to push the limits?"

Draco felt his anger deflating. "Spoken like a true Gryffindor." Potter was only drinking that champagne again to prove a point. Draco took the glass from him again with a slight smirk. "All in the name of nobility."

Potter grinned. "No, I actually wanted to drink that."

Draco waved his hand dismissively. "Please. You know you're three sips away from making an arse out of yourself."

"I believe I've already done that," Potter pointed out, then flushed and looked back at his hands.

"Always trying to bloody save everyone," Draco mused, remembering Potter's touch. "Aren't you?"

"You just saved me from that reporter!" Potter cried. "You did that just to help me, didn't you?"

Draco shrugged. "Molesting a reporter and threatening blackmail does not actually make me a noble, good person. In fact, it says the opposite."

Potter gave Draco a very sincere look. "But you did it to help me."

"Ah, so now motivation matters, does it?"

"Of course."

"We'll see if you're still singing that tune in a few months." Draco's mood suddenly darkened and he swallowed hard. Potter might say motivation mattered now, but once he saw the end result, he would never, ever forgive Draco.

Not that Draco would ever want Potter's forgiveness, of course.

"This is about your parents, isn't it?" Potter asked suddenly.

Draco gave a mirthless laugh. "Isn't it always?"

Potter sighed then tilted his head to the side. "With you, it seems."

Draco was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he missed the barb completely. "Yeah."

They sat side by side, staring at the parquet wooden dance floor. Draco was beginning to prickle with discomfort and unease.

"So," said Potter, finally. " How about them Cannons?"

Draco blinked and looked at him. "Huh?"

"Cannons. Chudley. Pulverized the Tutshill Tornadoes at the last match." Potter threw his hands out to his sides and made an explosion noise.

Draco gave him an incredulous look. "What the hell are you on about?"

"My favorite pro Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons."

Had Draco missed something? Last he remembered he was sulking about his parents and what a bad person he was.

Then it hit him. Potter, the bastard, changed the subject on purpose.

Draco's mouth curved up in the corners. "Bastard."

Potter smirked.

"Alright, _fine_." Draco held his hand up and tapped on his fingers for emphasis. "First of all, there are a million things wrong with that statement. _No_ self respecting Quidditch fan says their favorite team is the _Cannons_. For God's sakes, Potter!" Potter raised his eyebrows but said nothing. "Second of all, there is no way in hell they defeated Tutshill. Impossible. I won't believe it. Third of all, don't go shoving some _Daily Prophet_ stats page down my throat because I refuse to acknowledge that rubbish. And fourth of all, I haven't followed the league in months. I don't want to hear anything unless you're going to tell me the Falcons are going to the Cup."

"You haven't followed Quidditch at all this year?" Potter asked.

Shit. Draco should have known Potter would pick up on that, despite the boy's slightly inebriated state. Draco shook his head, feeling nervous about Potter's line of thought.

"Why not?"

"No time."

"Hmmm," Potter said. "Just like you've no time to _play_ Quidditch anymore, right?"

Draco nodded. He really did not want to have this conversation. Draco could feel his hands begin to tremble slightly, which seemed like a bit of an overreaction to the question.

Oh, right. The Draught of Peace must have worn off. Whenever the potion ran its course, Draco always felt exceedingly restless and usually more anxious than he had been prior to taking it. That's why Calming Draughts were highly addictive.

"Are you okay?" Potter asked, frowning down at Draco's hands. Draco balled his hands into fists. "Your hands are—"

"I _know_ , Potter," Draco said as he started to realize he couldn't take a full breath. He stretched up awkwardly as if trying to give his lungs more room to breath, but the amount of air he sucked in was not satisfying. Draco began to bounce his knee in agitation.

Potter reached a hand forward and placed it on Draco's shoulder. Draco flinched violently at the touch and jerked away. "DON'T! Don't _touch_ me."

"Well, jeez. _Sorry_." Potter sounded annoyed, as he should be. But too fucking bad for Potter. Potter needed to back off right now. Draco couldn't be touched right now. Draco would scream if Potter touched him right now. He dropped his head down between his knees and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to steady his breathing.

Draco heard Potter stand up and felt torn. He wanted him to go, but he didn't want him to go. "Fuck, why is this happening now?" Draco whispered to his knees, though he knew the answer. His own fault. Like everything.

"Malfoy, do you want me to get Pansy or something?" Potter asked gently.

"No. Just leave me alone." Draco could beat this. He didn't need a draught. Mind over matter. If Draco could fucking convince himself he was in fourth year, then certainly he could stop a panic attack.

"Do you want a drink or something?" Potter asked.

A drink. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. Draco needed to learn to control this on his own. "Maybe."

"Okay, I'll be back."

….

….

….

"Harry! Harry my boy! Where have you been?" Professor Slughorn greeted Harry with a solid pat on the back. The man was clearly getting close to the inebriated state that Harry had hoped for. Harry would have to cast the Imperius Curse soon.

Swallowing his nervousness, Harry stepped boldly forward, determined to play his role. "Oh, just enjoying the party, sir!" Harry flashed Slughorn a big smile and watched as a silver balloon dropped slowly from the ceiling and bounced off the man's head.

"Hmm, what was that?" Slughorn rubbed his head, absently. "Harry! I'd like you to meet a good friend of mine," Slughorn raised his eyebrows, "and former student—"

Harry nodded and tried to look impressed as Slughorn beamed proudly.

"Ms. Tracy Abbott of the _Daily Prophet_!" Slughorn turned abruptly and wrapped an arm around Abbott, spinning her around toward Harry. When she saw him, the smile fell from her face and she flicked her eyes in the direction of Malfoy who was still sitting with his head between his knees.

"Ms. Abbott," Slughorn said in grand voice. "I'd like you to meet 'The Boy Who Lived,' Mr. Harry Potter."

Harry smiled brightly at her and she grimaced in return. "We've already had the pleasure."

Slughorn threw his arms into the air. "Stupendous! Wonderful! How wonderful!"

"Yes," she said, narrowing her eyes at Harry. "I've also had the fortune of meeting Mr. Potter's good friend, the son of Lucius Malfoy."

Harry gave the woman a hard look. He could already see tomorrow's headlines: _Chosen One Consorting with Son of Death Eater_. This woman needed to know who she was dealing with.

"Ah yes," Slughorn nodded, seriously. "Brilliant in Potions, that one. Positively brilliant."

Abbott gave a smug smile. "Is that so?"

"Yes, it is." Harry insisted. "And quite a charmer, as well. If you'll recall." Harry gave Abbott a wink and she scowled in return. Slughorn stepped slightly away from them to schmooze with another Very Important Guest.

Abbot leaned toward Harry and spoke quietly so only he could hear. "That's not quite how I remember it." She popped open a tube of lipstick and quickly applied a thick coat of pink to her lips before snapping the tube shut and stuffing it into her pocketbook.

"No?" Harry blinked at her, innocently. "Well . . ." Harry gestured towards Creevey who had set an empty alcohol bottle as a prop beside Malfoy's feet and was photographing him from various angles. "I'm certain that my friend Colin could . . . get you a copy of that picture as a reminder?"

Abbott pressed her lips together then opened them with a smack. "You just wait until people find out what you're _really_ like, Harry Potter. A blackmailing, two-faced little friend of criminals and _Death Eaters._ I'm sure vandalizing the Ministry's lobby was just a riot for you and your little delinquent gang, here." Abbott motioned her thumb toward Draco.

Harry could feel his blood pressure rise despite the champagne fueling his system. He wanted to punch this woman in her stupid face. "Yes. Me and fellow gang member, 115 year old Albus Dumbledore, had a riot dueling Voldemort," Abbott flinched, "and tagging the ministry with Muggle spray paint afterwards. Just a little bit of common gang vandalism from a couple of delinquents."

"Shall I quote you on that?" Abbott asked, nastily.

"Go to hell." Harry should really stop talking to this woman. Malfoy had pulled him away from her in the first place. Harry was not nearly as politically savvy as the Slytherin and despite the photo Colin had taken, this woman could still make their lives a living hell and drag Malfoy into it. In fact, she could spin that picture as some sort of sexual molestation if she wanted to. "Look," Harry said. "He was rightfully upset about the content of an article you printed on his family that insinuated that he was a danger to others." Harry secretly agreed that Malfoy _was_ a danger to others, but this cow didn't need to know that.

"His family consorts with _Death Eaters_ ," Abbott hissed. "Of course he is!"

"His family—not _him!"_ Harry knew this was also another lie, but Malfoy had stuck up for him, so it was only fair that Harry return the favor. "Draco," the name sounded weird on his tongue, "is just a kid. Like me. Printing rubbish about adults is one thing, but where do you draw the line?"

Abbott lowered her eyes, looking momentarily mollified.

"Technically we are both underage until next year. I'm in the press constantly and nearly all of it is illegal. I would fight it, but the sheer number of libel cases alone would monopolize all of my time and money. Your paper gets away with these things because you're clever enough in whom you target. You know I wont fight you because I'm too busy fighting _actual_ evil to worry about my reputation. Unfortunately, your paper thwarts my efforts by riling people against me. With all due respect, Ms. Abbott, do you want me to defeat Voldemort?"

Harry felt proud of his ability to string together coherent sentences and wished that Hermione had been there to overhear his use of her Word of the Week, "thwart."

Abbott opened and closed her mouth looking startled. "Excuse me?"

"I asked you if you want me to defeat Voldemort."

Abbot scoffed. "Obviously. No one wants You-Know-Who to win."

Harry shrugged. "Then you'd be best not to meddle in the lives of those fighting this war. No matter what side you think they're on. If you recall, your papers pinned me against the Ministry just last year and had Dumbledore looking like an old fool."

Abbott shook her head. "Rita Skeeter—"

Harry nodded. "Yes. Rita Skeeter. The _Prophet_ does not need any more Skeeters. Your newspaper is becoming a joke. More people are turning to the _Quibbler_ for factual coverage. And isn't that saying something?"

Abbott gave Harry a reluctant smile. "Indeed."

"And if you're half as good a writer as Slughorn says you are," Harry lied, "then you don't need to resort to lies and sensationalism to get your articles printed."

Abbott's eyes lit up and looked at Slughorn who was standing a few feet from Harry. "He was the only Professor who thought I could make it," she mused, softly. "He helped me get my job at the _Daily Prophet_."

Harry nodded, "Hmmm, yes. Professor Slughorn has a knack for finding talent." Harry felt stupid saying this, knowing he was only at this party for his name and realizing that the sentence made him sound like a braggart. Abbott, however, gave him a large smile and Harry noticed that the woman, though old enough to be his mother, was actually a rather attractive woman when she was not scheming and insulting.

"Thank you, Mister Potter," Abbott said, blushing.

Harry wanted to roll his eyes. Why a compliment from some teenager who reads only out of necessity meant anything to this woman was completely bizarre, but Tracy Abbott looked as though she had just shaken hands with the Queen.

"Ah, wonderful, wonderful," Slughorn stumbled over to Harry holding a bottle of alcohol. "Two star students hitting it off. Mister Potter, Miss Abbott, would you humor an old man with a toast?" Slughorn gestured to the bottle in his hand.

Tracy Abbott politely declined, but Harry agreed, knowing that the more Slughorn drank, the easier it would be to cast the curse on him and get away with it. "Thank you, sir," Harry said and walked over toward the drinks table to fetch an empty goblet.

"Now this," Slughorn boasted, "is a very interesting and _limited edition_ mead that I ordered specially for the holidays."

"Hmm," Harry said, nodding. He remembered that he had told Malfoy he would get him a drink. "Mind if we pour another one of those for Malfoy, sir? He's always been a fan of, um . . ." Harry peered at the bottle. "Peppermint."

"Eh?" Slughorn asked absently as he poured the glasses. "Oh?" He looked up then at Malfoy whose head was between his legs as he rocked back and forth slightly on his chair. Colin Creevey had left the empty bottle next to Malfoy. Slughorn frowned. "Hmmm. Perhaps the boy's had enough."

Harry shook his head and took the proffered goblet of mead. Malfoy's position was very incriminating, but for some reason Harry didn't want Slughorn to think the worst of him. The man had finally acknowledged Malfoy's talent and that look of pure pride and gratitude on Malfoy's face when he had received his invitation to the party had made Harry feel good. It was nice to see Malfoy get credit for doing something right. Slughorn's praise seemed, perhaps, the only positive thing in Malfoy's life right now and if Harry could facilitate that, then Harry would be helping Malfoy.

And Harry had a thing for helping Malfoy.

"He hasn't had anything to drink, Professor. " A sudden idea occurred to Harry. He raised his eyebrows and motioned for Slughorn to come closer. The man looked left and right then leaned in to listen. "Malfoy's just had his heart broken, sir," Harry whispered.

Slughorn widened his eyes and took his goblet. "Broken heart, you say?"

"Yes, sir. Asked a girl to go steady with him but she told him to ' _bugger off_.'" Harry whispered the last lines.

"Ah, young love. Young Mister Malfoy. Oh my. I'll have a talk with the lad, see if we can't bring him around." Slughorn shook his head and set his goblet down. "You know," he said, "Old Horace had quite a way with the ladies in his day if you can believe it." Slughorn winked.

Harry laughed as his mind was assaulted with images of a love-potioned Slughorn batting his eyes at Ron. "Is that so?"

"Ah, yes." Slughorn looked into the distance as though recalling a fond memory. His eyes snapped back to Harry. "I was quite a looker then, too. But alas, I may have, er, overindulged a bit in recent years." Slughorn patted his stomach appreciatively. "But what is life without a little indulgence?"

Harry shrugged and laughed. This was working out great. Not only was Slughorn taking an interest in Malfoy, but Harry was also getting back on the Professor's good side and getting him properly inebriated at the same time.

"Drink up, be merry!" Slughorn encouraged Harry and nodded toward Harry's goblet. "That there is a favorite of Albus Dumbledore, you know. It was supposed to be a gift, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind if we nipped in a bit early." The man gave Harry a large flush-faced grin. "Now, let's see about getting Mister Malfoy back into the holiday spirit!"

Slughorn ambled off toward Malfoy and Harry laughed smugly, imagining how that conversation would play out. Slughorn would undoubtedly start talking about broken hearts and young love and Malfoy, being the Slytherin that he was, would almost certainly play along.

Snickering to himself, Harry watched as Slughorn took the seat next to Malfoy and clapped a giant hand around his back. Malfoy jumped nearly a foot into the air. The vicious look on his face transformed into an immediate, polite smile when he noticed the professor.

Harry saw Slughorn say his own name and Malfoy squinted then looked up at Harry. Harry smirked and inclined his head, raising his goblet in a mock toast. Malfoy narrowed his eyes and shook his head. "I fucking hate you," Malfoy mouthed.

Harry blinked innocently and mouthed back, "Who, _me?"_ He placed a hand on his heart.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and turned back to Slughorn. Slughorn gestured toward the drinks table and Malfoy nodded. Slughorn said something else and Malfoy's eyes snapped back to the table. Malfoy seemed to pale as he fixed his gaze on something beyond Harry. Suddenly, the good-natured grin on Malfoy's face morphed into a look of alarm.

Harry wondered if Malfoy was going to faint. He gave him a concerned look. "What?" he mouthed.

Malfoy had visibly tensed in his seat and said something else to Slughorn. Harry raised the goblet to his lips and took a sip of the mead. Malfoy widened his eyes and his mouth parted in horror. Harry swallowed and lowered the goblet, squinting back at him. What was Malfoy trying to tell him?

Suddenly, the blonde lurched from his chair and it fell to the floor with a clatter. He looked like he was about to cry or be sick. Slughorn stood beside him and put a hand on Malfoy's shoulder, but Malfoy recoiled from the touch, looking from Slughorn to Harry in a panic-sticken frenzy. He began to stumble forward, but Slughorn stopped him.

"No need to rush, Mr. Malfoy," Harry heard Professor Slughorn say. The man's voice sounded very far away. "There's more than plenty." The vision of Malfoy blurred into two and Harry blinked hard, trying to clear it. Confused, he stepped toward Malfoy, but lost his balance, bumping into the table.

Harry shook his head. Perhaps he'd had more to drink than he thought. Feeling bewildered, Harry went to set his goblet down on the table, but it slipped from his uncooperative fingers and shattered onto the floor. Through his confusion, he saw that Malfoy was standing frozen beside Professor Slughorn, with one hand over his mouth, repeating something over and over. Harry opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong when he realized he couldn't breathe. His lungs wouldn't take in any air. Harry blinked rapidly in rising panic as he struggled to focus on Malfoy's face. What was happening? Something had happened to him and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't _move_ and he was so hot. The sudden heat in his blood burned through his veins with agonizing pain.

Harry raised a shaking hand to his throat as he struggled for breath.

"Potter, are you alright?" Harry heard a voice ask.

"No-he's. Mr. Potter! Can you hear me?"

"Help! We need help!"

A terrifying blackness began to creep into the edge of Harry's vision and he was filled with utter dread as he realized too late what had happened. He could hear ragged sounds coming from his chest as he desperately failed to suck air into his lungs. There was wetness on his face as he sensed both tears and something coming out of his mouth. Harry's body began to twitch violently and he felt his muscles fall limp as he crumpled to the ground. The hot, terrifying blackness quickly swallowed him, squeezing his lungs and heart as his blood boiled around him, burning him from the inside out.

Harry had been poisoned and he was going to die.

….

….

….

"Ah yes, young love," a boisterous voice declared as Draco felt a mammoth arm collide with his back. He jumped in irritation then realized he was sitting beside Professor Slughorn. Draco forced himself to smile.

Then it registered what Slughorn had said. "Um, I'm sorry. What did you say?"

Slughorn chuckled knowingly. "Yes, yes, Harry told me all about it. A young lady has stolen your heart."

Draco looked up at Potter who was standing by the drinks table looking ridiculously smug and laughing at him. Draco turned back to Slughorn. "Told you all about it, did he?"

Slughorn clapped his fat hand on Draco's shoulder again and gave him a bone-breaking squeeze. "Yes, yes. Says you're suffering from a broken heart, lad."

Draco nodded solemnly then looked back at Potter who was watching their exchange looking entirely too proud of himself. For some reason Potter thought it would be funny to tell Slughorn that Draco was heartbroken over a girl. What a git. "I fucking hate you," Draco mouthed as Slughorn began a misty-eyed tale of a rich boy and a poor girl and a pair of ice skates.

"Who me?" Potter asked innocently. Draco fought the grin off of his face. Potter was such a ponce.

"Potter insisted you join us for a drink, Mr. Malfoy, and I have to say, I agree."

Draco nodded. "Sure. Thanks, Professor. It will be good to get my mind off of . . . _her_." Draco gave a wistful sigh.

"Of course, of course," Slughorn said. "Not too much, though," he said with a wink. "I promised the Headmaster I'd keep the students out of trouble this year. Especially my Slytherins."

"Mmm," Draco agreed, locking eyes with Potter. Potter was grinning like a fool and Draco felt an urge to straighten Potter's crooked glasses. Draco returned Potter's foolish grin with another eye-roll.

"Go along, lad. It's a _limited edition_ mead," Slughorn said in an important voice.

Wait. Limited edition mead . . . Draco felt himself tense and he clutched the seat of his chair. It couldn't be. No. No way. Draco gave an uneasy look at Potter who was holding a goblet of what must have been the mead. Draco squinted beyond Potter at the bottle on the table and felt his heart stop when he recognized the red and green label.

No. _No_. It couldn't be. Draco flicked his eyes between Potter, the bottle and Slughorn as he was overcome with sickening dread. No! He had been careful, this time. It was a gift for Dumbledore!

"It was supposed to be a gift for Professor Dumbledore," Slughorn chuckled and Draco watched in helpless horror as Potter tilted the goblet into his mouth and took a sip.

"W-what kind of m-mead—?"

"Ah," Slughorn said, nodding at Harry as he watched him drink. "A Candied Peppermint Mead. _Limited ed—"_

Malfoy heard his chair clatter to the floor as stumbled to his feet. Oh God. Oh _God._ Potter drank the mead. Potter drank the mead. He'd been poisoned! Draco needed to do something. _Something_.

The antidote. The antidote to Cyndorant was diluted Essence of Elderberry. But if Draco gave it to him, people would know that Draco was the one who had poisoned him. He couldn't—he couldn't—

Fuck! Potter was going to die!

Draco felt Slughorn's hand on his shoulder and he shoved the man away, his panicked thoughts a nauseating whirl.

No! No, no, no, no.

Draco stumbled blindly from Slughorn as Potter's goblet crashed to ground, shattering into glass shards and peppermint scented poison. Draco was wringing his hands, not sure what to do.

Potter looked into Draco's eyes as the poison took hold. His initial confusion faded and Draco could see the terrified realization in Potter's eyes as he opened and closed his mouth, helplessly, struggling for air.

"No, no, no, no," Draco gasped, desperately. What had he done? Oh God, what had he done?

Draco knew the antidote, but he would be caught if he gave it to him. His family would be ruined, he— _POTTER IS DYING, YOU SELFISH FUCK! YOU'VE POISONED HIM!_

"No," Draco croaked as Potter's body crumpled into a heap. People were shouting for help and a crowd had formed around Potter. Draco was suddenly aware of Slughorn standing there, stuttering like a baffled idiot. "WELL, DO SOMETHING!" Draco screamed, gesticulating wildly. "HE'S BEEN POISONED!"

"I-I-I." Slughorn was shaking.

Draco fixed the man with wild eyes. The dolt was useless! "You're a fucking POTIONS professor! Get him a fucking antidote!" Draco pleaded, mentally screaming _ESSENCE OF ELDERBERRY!_

More people were crowding around, frantically shouting for help and trying spells, but it was no use. No spell would save Potter. Draco was his only hope and he was failing him. Without oxygen, Potter's organs would fail completely in about two more minutes. On top of that, his blood would scorch through his veins, burning him from the inside out in what books described as one of the most agonizingly painful deaths.

Draco's mind was at war with itself, but he rushed forward anyway and tried to shove through the crowd. "Move!" Draco elbowed someone out of his way and caught a glimpse of Potter choking on the ground in a pile of glass shards and mead. The sickening scent of poisoned peppermint filled the air. "Potter," he gasped, as the poisoned boy thrashed on the ground, struggling for air.

"Watch it, Malfoy!" someone said.

"Get the fuck away from me!" Draco shouted and violently shoved the other person into the crowd. The person shoved him back and Draco fell onto his knees beside Potter.

_The antidote! Just say what the fucking antidote is!_

" _No_ , no, no, no!" Draco wailed, raking his hands through the shards of glass on the ground. He didn't care. He'd killed him. Draco had killed him. And now he was going to sit here and watch it happen-watch Potter _die_ in front of him. He couldn't do it. Draco couldn't just say the fucking antidote. He was such a spineless coward that he was going to let Potter die rather than risk getting caught.

Tears were streaming from Potter's eyes. The poison was likely burning his organs. Draco gaped in helpless horror as Potter writhed in agony. "I can't. I _can't_!" Draco hissed. There had to be another way. There had to be something else.

Draco was hit with a memory of Potter staring down at him with tears in his eyes, pleading with Draco to swallow.

"A bezoar," Draco gasped, scrambling off the ground and looking for Slughorn. "Get him a fucking bezoar, _now!"_

No one moved. Draco looked about wildly. Why weren't they listening? Didn't they believe him? "He needs a bezoar!" Draco insisted again. When he was met with confused stares, Draco swore and turned from the crowd, determined to get the damn thing himself.

Two hands slammed into Draco. "Get away from him, Malfoy!" Weasley's angry red face suddenly blocked Draco's view. Potter. Draco had to get past him. He needed a bezoar.

"Weasley, _move!_ " Draco pushed Weasley and tried to get back to Potter. Potter's lips were turning blue and he was convulsing on the floor, foaming at the mouth. "Fuck, Potter! _Weasley, MOVE!"_

Weasley was about to say something else when two hands grasped Draco around the middle and tugged him back. "Get the fuck off!" There was no time! No time!

"Draco!" Pansy's voice was shrill behind him. "Draco- _stop!"_

"No! Fuck!" Draco struggled out of Pansy's grasp and into Ron Weasley who knocked him back, protectively blocking Draco's path to Potter. Pansy grabbed him around his waist again. Didn't these idiots understand? Potter needed his help! He needed to get to Potter. He had to! "GET OFF ME!" Pansy and Weasley showed no signs of stopping and there was no more time. "A BEZOAR! GET HIM A BEZOAR! SOMEONE GET HIM A FUCKING BEZOAR!"

The redhead showed some glimpse of understanding and bolted from the crowd. Draco caught another glimpse of Potter and swallowed back his horror. "No," Draco whimpered. He stumbled closer, failing to swallow back choking tears. He could hear his own voice speaking, but he had no idea what he was saying. Draco could sense people staring at him, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Potter. Adrenaline thrummed through his veins with burning heat as he begged a desperate plea for mercy from a God who had long since forgotten Draco.

Arms wrapped tightly around him and dragged him away from Potter. Draco fought against them frantically.

"Draco! Draco, _stop!_ "

"Oh, God . . I've . . No! _No, no, no, no!_ God. What have I . . . he's—! Potter!" Draco raved madly as he continued to struggle free and get back to Potter. Potter needed him.

The thought was immediately met with sickened revulsion.

Potter didn't need _him._

Draco had done this! This was all his fucking fault.

"Draco, calm down! It's alright!" Pansy had pinned Draco's arms to his sides with a surprising amount of strength.

"No!" Draco cried. "It's not! It's Potter, he's—!"

Weasley came rushing back and fell to Potter's side. He jammed a bezoar into his mouth and then someone moved forward and blocked Draco's view.

Potter got the bezoar. It hadn't been that long. Potter was okay. He had to be okay.

Draco exhaled in relief, unable to hold back a choking sob. He was okay. Potter would be okay.

"Draco," Pansy hissed. "Get a fucking hold of yourself. You're making a scene." Draco swallowed and took a jarring breath. He slowly opened his eyes and realized that Pansy was right. Half of the people in the crowd were staring at him in confusion, while the others were watching Potter as he was lifted out of the glass shards and onto a magical, floating stretcher. Ron Weasley had stepped away from Potter and was standing next to a tearful Granger. Weasel, whose own face was tear-streaked, fixed Draco with a suspicious look.

Draco felt the excess adrenaline pump madly through his system. His hands and knees were trembling. His right foot was smacking the ground rapidly of its own volition and he knew he was going to collapse if he didn't sit. Pansy seemed to sense this so she dragged him back over to the chair he had been sitting in earlier, out of the view of the crowd. Draco clung to her desperately as he willed his teeth to stop chattering and his body to still. Pansy rubbed soothing circles on his back and shushed him.

"There, there, Draco."

Draco was hit with a fresh wave of guilt. He didn't deserve Pansy's sympathy. This whole thing was his fucking fault. Potter might be dead. Really, truly dead. Draco sat suddenly and pushed her back with shaking hands.

"Draco . . ."

"D-don't. I don't—c-can't—"

Pansy huffed and wrapped her arms around him tightly. "Draco, you can talk to me all you want when you're capable of making sentences. Right now just shut the fuck up and calm down. You'll make a bad situation worse by acting like a mental case."

She was right, of course. Draco wrapped his arms around himself tightly and lowered his head. He couldn't stop her from trying to calm him down. If that made her feel helpful, then fine.

Draco knew he didn't deserve tears, but his body was completely refusing to cooperate with his head and he couldn't fucking stop as his emotions took total hold and he wailed incoherently, sputtering nonsense through his ragged, choking tears.

He was vaguely aware of Pansy casting an Imperturbable Charm and a Silencing Charm and was, again, reminded of how undeserving he was of anyone's kindness.

Pansy continued to rub small, soothing circles as Draco rocked himself back and forth. He was so pathetic. So disgustingly pathetic.

When Draco had calmed down marginally, he took a shaking breath. "I-I need to know w-what happened t-to him." Draco's voice came out weak and high-pitched. It sounded foreign to his ears.

Pansy stopped and tilted her head to the side. "Forgive me, Draco, but . . . why do you care?"

It was a fair question. Draco couldn't give her a fair answer.

"Draco?"

Draco opened his mouth to speak and let out a little hiccuping sob. He reached up and scrubbed the tears from his face. Pansy gently pushed his hand away and dabbed at his face with a handkerchief that she pulled from her bra. Draco could smell Potter's oily hair and he frowned in confusion before he realized that Pansy must have nicked her mother's illegal Amortentia perfume.

She placed a manicured hand under Draco's chin and tilted his head up to look at her. Draco tried to look away, blinking rapidly.

"Draco, look at me." Pansy was giving him a hard stare.

Draco did.

"Answer me honestly," she said slowly. Pansy's eyes were filled with trepidation and Draco _knew_ what she was going to ask. He sniffed and tried to look away but she jerked his head back to her. "You did this, didn't you?"

Draco felt his chin wobble in her hands and he blinked back a fresh set of tears, swallowing hard.

"Draco!" Pansy repeated, her voice sounding more anxious. "Answer me, Draco. Did you poison Harry fucking _Potter_?"

Draco tried to shake his head, "no," as hot, guilty tears spilled out of eyes.

Pansy released his chin and stared at him in disbelief. "Jesus," she breathed.

Draco buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed with shame and guilt and disgust and a frantic worry that he didn't deserve to feel. "It was an accident," he whispered into his hands.

Draco could see Pansy clenching and unclenching her delicate hands into tight, manicured fists. "Jesus."

"I didn't—"

"An _accident_?" Pansy shrieked. Draco hoped she'd cast a strong Silencing Charm. He bit his lip and nodded miserably.

"So . . . so . . ." Pansy was frowning, trying to work everything out. Draco had no doubt that she would. "So you didn't mean to poison _him_?"

" _No,_ " he croaked, swallowing hard as his adrenaline surge began to give way to nausea. Draco wrapped his arms around himself more tightly.

"But," Pansy continued, "That means that you meant to poison someone else."

Draco nodded slowly. "Yes," he whispered, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.

"To kill them," Pansy said.

Draco pressed his lips together and nodded.

Pansy suddenly looked like she was going to cry. She bit her lip for a moment and frowned as though she was thinking hard. She turned to Draco then and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Your task for the Dark Lord," she whispered, "is to murder someone at Hogwarts."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head towards the ceiling in a silent plea to a god that would never answer his prayers. Bitter tears streamed from his eyes. "Yes," Draco mouthed.

Draco listened for Pansy's retreating footsteps and was shocked when he felt her arms pull him towards her chest in a tight, aggressive hug.

"H-how can you t-touch me?" Draco asked, his voice filled with self-loathing.

Pansy squeezed him tighter and buried her head against his shoulder. He could feel wetness on his shoulder and felt confused that she, too, was crying. "I'm so sorry, Draco," she said in a small voice. "I'm so sorry."

Draco felt confused and disgusted, but he was too exhausted to fight her off. "Don't," he said in a weak voice.

"Oh, Draco." Pansy reached one thumb up and wiped the tears off of Draco's face. The tender move felt like cruel torture and Draco recoiled, pulling away.

"S-stop," Draco begged. Pansy dropped her head back down and wrapped her arm back around him.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated again.

"Fuck it, Pansy!" Draco said in a hoarse voice. " _You're_ sorry! I'm a mur-murderer."

"Don't say that," Pansy whispered.

Draco finally shoved her off and fixed her with a desperate look. "Don't _say_ that?" he hissed. "It's what I am! Did you see what I fucking _did_ , Pansy?"

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. "It's not your fault."

"It _IS_ my fault!" Draco cried. "It's _ALL_ my fault! I did this, Pansy! I," Draco pointed his forefinger at his chest. " _ME_. I did this. "

Pansy frowned for a moment. "Are you worried you'll be in trouble with the Dark Lord for killing Potter before he got to him?"

Draco paused for a moment, taking in her words, before flying from his chair, wild with emotion. " _NO!_ " Draco kicked the chair violently and it crashed to the floor, causing Pansy to shudder. "Am I—? _What?"_ Draco balled his hands up into fists and paced hysterically across the parquet dance floor. "How can you _say_ that? Am I fucking scared the Dark Lord will be pissed that I got to him _first_?"

"Draco. Calm down and sit."

" _NO!_ You think I want Potter to die? Is that what you think, Pansy? That I'm more worried about saving my arse than I am about Potter's fucking life?" As Draco raved, he vaguely registered the enormity of what he was saying, but he didn't care anymore. He just fucking didn't.

"Well, you're obviously more worried about saving your arse than you are about _someone's_ life. And if that someone is not Potter then why in the _fuck_ are you a Death Eater?"

"I DON'T WANT TO BE!" The truth of the words hit Draco a moment after he said them and the relief was astounding. He didn't want this. Draco didn't want to be a murderer. He didn't want to kill anyone. "I want _out!_ I fucking want _out._ I can't do this anymore!"

"Then get out, Draco!"

" _It's too fucking late!"_

Pansy stood up and grasped his shoulders tightly. Her dark eyes were full of determination. "You shut the fuck up and listen to me, Draco Malfoy."

Draco shut his mouth and breathed heavily through his nose.

Pansy took a deep breath. "If Potter lives—" Draco whimpered and looked at the ceiling trying to fight off more tears. "Look at me!"

Draco looked back at her.

"If Potter fucking lives, then you get the fuck out."

"But, P-Pansy. My parents, I can't—!"

Pansy shook Draco's shoulders violently. "You _CAN_ you dimwitted idiot!" she shrieked. "You don't want to be a murderer? THEN DON'T BE A FUCKING MURDERER, DRACO!"

"How can I—?"

Pansy's eyes were wild, but her resolve gave Draco a miniscule amount of hope. "Draco. _PROMISE ME_. If Potter lives, you will stop this shit! Your life is still _your_ fucking life, Draco Malfoy. You don't owe the Dark Lord _anything_ and you don't owe your parents anything, either. You don't have to do this! There is still time, you bloody fool."

Draco swallowed, feeling slightly calmed. "If Potter lives . . ." he whispered.

"If Potter lives," Pansy repeated in a softer voice. "Promise me."

Draco closed his eyes. He was holding so many lives in his hands. But _his_ _own_ life . . . Draco didn't want to be a murderer. Taking a shaking breath, Draco nodded and Pansy visibly relaxed. "Okay."

"Promise me."

Draco nodded again. "I promise."


	16. Chapter 16

Once Draco had calmed down, Pansy quickly ushered him out of the party and walked him back to the Slytherin dorms. Draco fought her the entire way, insisting that he go to the Hospital Wing, but Pansy remained steadfast, going so far as to hold Draco at wandpoint until he agreed to go back to his dorm and sleep.

"You can face this tomorrow with a clear head," Pansy had said. "What's done is done. You'll only get in the way."

Draco didn't want to get in the way. Potter needed to be okay.

"Plus," she added, raising her eyebrows, "after that little show you put on, I'd be surprised if Potter's little body guards let you anywhere near him."

Draco widened his eyes. "Did—did I look guilty?"

Pansy grimaced. "You looked _mental_."

Embarrassed, Draco vaguely recalled sobbing and muttering to himself in the middle of Slughorn's Christmas party. "Perhaps so," he clipped. "But. Did. I. Look. _Guilty?_ "

Pansy ran a hand through her curls. "Maybe? I don't know, Draco. You obviously looked guilty to _me_."

Draco frowned at the floor. "Fuck." This was not good. Not good at all. If Draco looked guilty then he was wholly, truly fucked. The Wizarding World wasn't exactly known for giving their accused a fair trial . . . Shite. He would be arrested. While Hogwarts students would be reuniting with their families on Platform 9 ¾ for the holidays, Draco would be reuniting with his dear old father in Azkaban. Draco would have to flee Hogwarts tomorrow. He would have to hide.

"But," Pansy added, grasping Draco's elbow and interrupting his thoughts. "You might also come out of this looking like some sort of hero."

Draco balked. " _Hero?"_

Pansy shrugged. "If the press spins it the right way, yeah. The bezoar _was_ your idea and a bloody good one at that." It was a sickening thought, him being regarded as a hero. "The bezoar was a noncommittal way of saving Potter that didn't reveal your knowledge of the poison or the antidote."

"I know," Draco said. "Do you think they'll really say I saved him? With our history and all?"

They turned a corner and shuffled down the stairs together. Stairs were considerably more difficult to navigate with a girl attached to one's elbow.

"Well, you were making nice with Potter at that party . . ."

"Yeah, but—"

"But," Pansy seemed to catch Draco's line of thinking, "they might think it was a set up. Or that you did it on purpose to look like a hero."

"Shite."

"Yeah. I don't know, Draco. There's a million ways this could go. Just get some sleep and hope for the best. And _do not_ go anywhere near Potter or the Hospital Wing."

Draco huffed. "You don't _get_ it, Pansy! I can't stand this—I have to know how he is. I can't explain it!"

Pansy's mouth quirked up in the corner. "You're worried about him." She snorted. "Potter."

"I'm worried about myself," Draco retorted, but it sounded weak.

"Right." Pansy gave his elbow a light squeeze. "You feel guilty."

"Come off it, Pans."

"Look," she said, sounding amused. Draco was not amused. Pansy was an irritating know-it-all. "If it'll make you feel better, _I'll_ go check on Potter for you. Tomorrow."

Draco's head was nodding before she even finished the sentence. "Yes. Fine. Tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow."

" _First thing_ tomorrow morning and then you'll tell me everything you know."

Pansy said the password to Slytherin and stared at Draco while the passage opened. She was giving him a strange, sort of sad look. "Okay, Draco. Get some sleep."

Draco gave her a grim look and then went to his room where he knew he would not be getting any sleep. There was no way he'd be able to rest now. He felt sick and angry and scared and above all else, guilty, just like Pansy had said.

Draco tore the stupid cape off of his neck and flung it onto his bed. The constricting tie and suit jacket soon followed. Draco unbuttoned the buttons of his trousers then and, overcome with self-loathing, sprawled himself into a heap on his bed. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them tightly. Draco turned his head and buried his face into his pillow, listening as his smothered, uneven breaths heated the fabric.

If Potter lived, Draco would need to make some serious decisions. But how? And what about his parents? Draco needed a plan. Every time he closed his eyes his mind replayed the moment when Potter realized he had been poisoned, and each time Draco remembered that if he hadn't thought of the bezoar, he would have let Potter die in front of him.

Scum. Garbage. That's what he was. It didn't matter if he had been the one to come up with Potter's alternative cure. Draco knew the truth. He knew the truth and had said nothing.

The sheets felt unusually scratchy and hot and seemed to tangle around his feet in death vice. Blood thrummed through his body, vibrating his core and rushing through his ears, the uneven beats discordant against his shallow breaths. A trickle of sweat worked its way down his back and he abruptly rolled over, catching his foot in the neck of his cape.

There was no way Draco was going to sleep tonight. He needed to move.

Draco pushed away his discarded cape, tie and suit jacket and grabbed one of Goyle's old, brown jumpers off of the floor. He pulled it over his white collared shirt and rolled up the sleeves a few times in a haphazard fashion. The jumper hung loosely over his right shoulder. Still wearing his unbuttoned dress trousers and shoes, Draco grabbed his wand and his school bag and crept out of the Slytherin dorms.

Potter had been glad Draco had come to the party. _I'm happy to see you_ , he'd said, and the words had caused adrenaline to spike in Draco's potion-tempered body. In return, Draco had stuffed his face full of sweets and told Potter that, no, he was not happy to see him. Potter's cheeks has flushed in supreme humiliation and Draco, at the time, had found that amusing and enticing. Now, considering what had happened, it just seemed unnecessary and cruel.

Ugh. It had been a joke, sort of, but Potter had taken the jibe seriously. Why hadn't Draco just been honest with him? The truth was, Draco had been immediately put at ease when he'd noticed Potter's presence. In a funny way, Potter had been the reason that Draco had agreed to attend at all. Normally, he never would have accepted an invitation from Slughorn after having been snubbed by the fat sod all year, but in the Great Hall, Potter had made it seem like Draco would be welcome—like the two of them would be suffering the ridiculous evening together. And then, like a magnet, he'd spotted the brunette with the Weasel and found himself at ease just by being in the boy's presence. Was Draco happy to see Potter? Yes. Of course he had been. That's why he'd gone right up to him with Pansy. But would Draco ever tell Potter that? No, of course not. Instead he would insult and embarrass him and now it was too fucking late to take it back.

Christ. Why did he always act like such a prick?

Draco clenched his fists and swallowed.

God, he really hoped Potter wasn't in pain. But he probably was.

Draco tiptoed out of the Slytherin Common Room. Professor Snape tended to keep a tight watch on his house and it was rare that a student even bothered to sneak out past curfew, but Draco was beyond caring at this point. In fact, Draco felt so beside himself that he almost fancied running into the man. A good fight sounded sublime right about now—especially with his Head of House.

Until recently, the greasy man had been Draco's idol.. Even when he found out that Snape was a spy for the Dark Lord, Draco continued to trust and depend on him as a teacher and mentor.

That all ended, however in August. Snape, the bastard, was _there_ when Draco had sworn his loyalty to the Dark Lord. He stood idly by and watched with a cold, detached look on his face while Draco bowed before Satan himself and vowed to do his bidding. Snape just watched it happen, just watched Draco hand over his life and did nothing to help him or his family—nothing!

There wasn't anything Snape could have done. Logically, Draco knew this. What would he have done? Stopped Draco from going in the first place? Impossible—Draco had been obstinate. He never would have listened. But, fuck it, the man could have _tried_. Draco had been used. He felt lied to. Why hadn't anyone told him the truth? Why didn't they tell him what it was going to be like? Surely, Snape knew. Surely, _Lucius_ knew.

But Lucius, the bastard, had gotten _himself_ put into jail.

And Snape, who was supposed to look out for Draco's best interests, had put the interests of the Dark Lord before Draco's, just like every adult who was ever supposed to care about him. They couldn't have thought that this situation was best for Draco. No. They knew the truth. They knew that this was a near death sentence for him, that the likelihood of actually completing this task and living was slim, at best, and the possibility of him retaining some semblance of sanity was somewhere around zero. It was obvious, now. They knew. They just didn't care. Not his parents and not Snape.

So what the hell was Draco trying to do? He was going to murder an innocent man—one that had spoken the truth about the Dark Lord, mind—to protect the people who lied to him and used him and never really cared about him?

It was their stupid fault Draco was in this predicament. It was their stupid, selfish, groveling, power-hungry fault that they got mixed up with the Dark Lord in the first place. They'd given the Dark Lord everything. They'd given him their power, their dignity, their loyalty and their fucking _son_.

And maybe his parents were pathetic. And maybe they were selfish. And maybe they cared more about the Dark Lord and themselves than they did about Draco. But they were still his parents . . .

His parents who couldn't possibly love him.

And in return he had risked everything for them.

Draco was a fucking _child_. He had been given to a monster by the people who were supposed to love him. His whole life he had been manipulated and trained into becoming this—this _murderer_. His parents knew. They knew all along that he would become this. For the Malfoy name. For _them._ For _Him._

But what about Draco? What did he get in return? The best racing brooms? Elf manicures? All the galleons he could possibly want?

A fair trade for Draco's life. And what did the Dark Lord offer Draco for his services? More of the same. Money, power.

Draco had been molded to be manipulated by the lure of power and money his entire life. But that wasn't the way things were for everyone. Not all people were motivated by greed.

Fuck, he was pissed. Draco would love to see Snape right now. Merlin, he would love to see that lying two-faced shite who never gave a damn about him and punch his fucking face in. Snape, who was supposed to protect him.

His parents were supposed to care about him.

But they obviously didn't.

Draco banged into the Chapel, slightly surprised that he had ended up there. The room was an angry, glowing red, which further fuelled his rage. Draco tore his school bag off his shoulder and threw it against one of the stained glass windows with all the force he could muster. The windowpane shattered to the floor. The color-charmed glass faded from red to clear as the shards littered the tile in a brilliant shower.

An insatiable need for destruction filled his body. With a frustrated roar, Draco aimed his wand at one of the fire-orange pews. " _REDUCTO!"_ he shouted. The bench exploded in a flash of light and smoke and torn splinters of wood burst from the spot.

He managed to shield his face from the onslaught of sharp wood. Then he threw his wand down and seized a large wooden beam about the size of a beater's bat.

Blind with hurt and fury, Draco stumbled towards the walls. He drew back the wood and bashed in another window with a ferocious, inhuman scream. Then he moved to the next window and did it again. One by one, Draco smashed and shattered the beautiful stained glass windows, all the while feeling a strange sense of calm in the middle of total obliteration. He hardly bothered to dodge the cascade of broken glass that showered about. His arms and hands were bloodied, but he kept it up, smashing, a methodical rhythm, yelling and cursing, fuelled by pain and grief and guilt.

They were supposed to love him.

But they didn't.

Draco let out a pained cry. He flung the piece of wood away from him and sunk to his knees amidst the damage, trying to steady his breath but it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much.

They didn't love him. They didn't care.

A painful sob escaped from somewhere deep inside of him and he swallowed hard, trying to force his emotion back down where it belonged. He didn't want to cry anymore. Fuck, he'd embarrassed himself enough for one night, so he squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his chest with his hand, rubbing soothing circles beside his heart, the way one would to calm a baby.

Merlin sakes, he was a complete and total mess.

Draco heard the sudden sound of a throat clearing and whipped up his head with a shocked whimper. Who the hell was there?

"Malfoy," said a voice, sounding both concerned and annoyed. Draco pulled the neck of Goyle's sweater up over his face and quickly dried his eyes. He sniffed, squinting blearily up at the door.

Terry Boot was standing in the doorway wearing striped pajamas and looking supremely pissed. He eyed Draco warily whilst surveying the damage.

Draco opened his mouth to speak, but found himself too shocked and ashamed to say anything. He'd just come into Boot's masterpiece of a room and destroyed it in a uncontrollable fit. Oh God, had Boot watched him the whole time?

Feeling his cheeks begin to color, Draco scrambled to his feet and grabbed his schoolbag. Draco shook the glass pieces off of it and, with his head down and eyes averted, tried to push past Terry Boot and leave.

But Terry Boot was having none of that.

"Accio," Terry said, and Draco's wand unearthed itself from the rubble and landed easily in Terry's hand.

Shit. Draco had forgotten his wand.

Boot quickly cast a Locking Charm over the door. Desperate for escape, Draco tried to open it anyway, shaking and jangling the handle.

"It's locked, Malfoy."

No. Draco was not staying in here. He was _not_ staying in this ruined room with Terry Boot. He was _not_ going to face up to _another_ fucking thing that he had managed to destroy.

Ignoring all reason, Draco pounded on the door and kicked it.

"Malfoy," Boot said in a steady voice. Draco felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned and shoved Boot so hard away from him that the Ravenclaw stumbled backward and fell onto the ground, cutting his hands in the glass. "Fuck!" Boot swore. "Shite."

Draco shook the door handle with so much force that, had it not been charmed with magic, it would most certainly have broken off. "God. Fuck it!" Draco kicked it once more with finality, then turned away from the door and Terry Boot and stomped over the farthest side of the room. He wrapped his arms around himself and sunk to the floor.

The Chapel, without its charmed glass and prisms and lights, looked eerily somber. The empty windowpanes showed only solid blackness behind them. The benches, once orange, had dulled to a burnt, scabby red and the only light in the room came from the remaining, colorless window shards that vibrated with a flickering, green-hued light, casting vast, wobbly shadows about the room.

Something about this made Draco feel very sad. Very sad and very sorry.

His little tantrum had felt right in the moment, but now he could see what a stupid, childish thing it was. He had ruined something that he actually liked—typical, he thought with disgust—and he wanted it back, but he wasn't sure that he could undo damage of this caliber and, even if he could, the spells that Boot had used to create the room weren't likely to be mended with physical repairs spells.

Terry Boot stood up and rounded on Draco, his hands clenched into fists.

Feeling like a trapped animal, Draco wrapped his arms tighter around himself. He was uncomfortably aware of his vulnerability—wandless and sad and scared, and _shite_ , what was with the look on Terry Boot's face?

In a sudden blur of movement, Boot leapt onto Draco and pinned him to the ground. He tried to wrestle out of the Ravenclaw's mad grasp but he was too exhausted and Boot was livid and it was no match. Boot was going to kill him.

Fingertips dug sharply into the cuts in his shoulders and he hissed in pain, writhing and squirming frantically to get free.

"Draco! What the fuck did you do?" Terry Boot shook Draco by the shoulders. "Why would you do this?"

Guilt. More fucking guilt.

Draco could not deal with any more guilt.

"Because, Boot!" Draco spat and tried to knee Boot in the groin, but Boot had his legs pinned now, too. "You're pathetic and so is this ponce-y little loveshack of yours."

Terry Boot, whose features had held nothing but a fake smile for the past year, snarled suddenly and reached back a fist, plowing it directly into Draco's face with astounding force. Draco heard a nauseating crack and everything went white and then red and then black.

He began choking on the taste of blood, swallowing pools of metallic-flavored liquid as it settled like heavy acid in the pit of his stomach.

"Bloody hell," Terry Boot muttered and climbed off of Draco. Draco sat up, sputtering and trying to cough up the blood that had dripped down his throat. He peered at Terry Boot who was staring at his own fist as though shocked at the damage it had done. Draco no longer felt anger or the need to defend his actions. He just felt like a huge arsehole.

Draco was completely covered in blood. Both Boot's punch and the plethora of glass cuts had Draco bleeding out copious amounts. In fact, Draco was beginning to feel a bit ill. His head felt really light and his stomach, now heavily coated with his blood, was churning with nausea. He could barely see through the pounding pain in his head.

"Bloody hell," Boot said again. "Sorry, Draco."

Draco gave a derisive snort and swallowed the blood that followed. "For what?" he asked, thickly.

"For, you know." Boot gestured clumsily with his wand, then shook his head. "Shite, Malfoy. You're obviously in a state about something. I didn't have to hit you."

"I ruined your room," Draco pointed out.

Boot shrugged. "Well, there is that."

Draco finally dared to look at Boot. "How'd you know I was here?"

Terry Boot gave a smug grin. "Wards."

Draco sniffed. "Oh, of _course_. The most magically charmed room at Hogwarts _would_ be rigged with wards."

Boot's smile faded. "Yeah, well, not anymore."

Draco exhaled heavily and shook his head. "Fuck. I don't know what to say."

Boot trained his wand on Draco and began to whisper what must have been NEWT level healing spells, because Draco felt all of the bleeding in his face, nose, hands and arms stop. The stinging burn of his cuts faded away, leaving Draco feeling whole, but empty. Physical pain hadn't been the problem in the first place.

"Thanks," said Draco, inspecting his arms and admiring Terry Boot's work. "I don't suppose I can, um," Draco gestured to the windows then let his hand drop onto his lap, "help," he finished, lamely.

Terry Boot gave Draco a considering look and tilted his head to the side. His sandy brown hair fell over his face and he brushed it away. "This pathetic, ponce-y little loveshack? I thought you were glad to be rid of it."

Draco gave a self-deprecating roll of his eyes. "Not really."

Terry Boot pressed his lips together and nodded. "I see. Well, I _am_ a Ravenclaw and not a complete idiot, Draco."

Draco frowned, his confusion evident.

"I wrote everything down," Terry explained. He gave a small shrug. "So you don't have to worry about it."

"Oh."

"Also," Boot murmured, a small smile playing on his lips, "I doubt you'd have a problem with anything 'ponce-y.'"

Draco looked to the side and then back at Boot. Then he looked at his lap and back up at Boot. He couldn't have heard him correctly. "I'm sorry . . . _what?"_

Boot was chewing on his lips and staring at Draco with a funny look on his face that was making Draco feel extremely uncomfortable. "Wards," he said, as if that explained it all.

And, when Draco stopped and thought for a moment, it did. Oh, fucking hell. Boot had seen everything with Potter.

"Draco, it's nothing to be ashamed of. In fact—"

No. No. Stop. No, this conversation was not happening . . .

"—totally normal and—"

Draco was _not_ going to talk about . . . about . . . What? His sexuality? Christ, he hadn't even allowed himself to _think_ about it since . . .

"—even animals. And in nature, one notices that—"

Shut up! Shut up!

Draco hated Terry Boot. _Hated Terry Boot_. He wouldn't stop talking! The idiot wouldn't shut up!

"—part of the reason I had such a tough time. But I've noticed that you—"

Terry Boot still had Draco's bloody wand. Terry Boot had locked him inside the room. Oh shite. Oh no. Oh God. Terry Boot was going to ply him with Muggle drugs and rape him!

"—kiss you?"

Draco swallowed and scooted frantically away from Terry Boot. He shot darting glances all over the room as he tried to look anywhere except at the Ravenclaw tosser. No—make that the Ravenclaw _rapist_.

"Draco?" Boot asked, his face wrinkling up in concern.

Draco shook his head. "N-No. No! Back off, Boot! Just, back off!" Draco held out a hand in front of him, as if it would keep wanded Terry away. "For Christ's sakes, I'm not kissing you!"

Terry Boot started to laugh and Draco stilled.

"Don't laugh at me!" Draco shouted. "You—creep!"

Boot laughed harder and put a hand on Draco's knee. Draco kicked it off and scrambled into a standing position, pressing himself against the wall.

"I'm not . . . I'm not like that!" Draco yelled.

"Neither am I!" Terry Boot chuckled. "And yes you are!"

"I am not!" Draco said. "And if you're not, then why the hell are you trying to kiss me, you fucking freak?"

Boot clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Christ. I forget you aren't in Ravenclaw." Draco scowled. "Do you listen when people speak, Malfoy, or do you just make snap judgments and cling to them as truth?"

Draco said nothing. Obviously he had missed something and he wasn't going to risk making himself out to be even more of an arse.

"I asked you if you wanted me to keep it secret? You and Potter, that is." Boot gave Draco a kind smile and Draco fought the urge to knock his front teeth out.

"There is no 'Me and Potter.' Your liquor-soaked mind is playing tricks on you again."

Boot crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying his protests.

And, really, what did it matter what Boot thought he saw? No one would believe him, anyway. Boot's reputation as a reliable source was questionable at best and—heh. Really. Draco and Potter. It didn't make sense in any context. A part of Draco's brain had almost convinced himself that he'd imagined the whole thing except, being here, in this room, made it all come back to him. He sighed, defeated. "So, Obliviatingyou is not an option, then?"

Boot shook his head. "Time limit. Just a few hours."

Draco huffed. "Right." He blinked back his humiliation and crossed his arms protectively around himself.

"Well?" asked Terry, standing.

Draco clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together. He took a deep breath through his nose and looked at the ceiling. Perhaps it wasn't so bad that Terry Boot knew. Or was it? Draco didn't know. He couldn't fucking wrap his head around it. Maybe Terry knowing would somehow implicate Draco as a Death Eater and attempted murderer, but Draco couldn't for the life of him figure out how. Besides, it didn't seem like there was much Draco could do about it. "Yes," Draco finally hissed through his teeth.

"Sure thing, Draco," chirped Boot, seemingly thrilled to be in on a secret with Draco. "I may not be a Hufflepuff, but I _am_ trustworthy."

Boot, _trustworthy?_ "Ha!" Draco protested. "No you're not! You're not trustworthy at all! You left me to get lost on _purpose_ that one night! You left me for _Granger_ to find! I was all—fucked up, excuse my language—and you left me here!"

Terry Boot gaped and blinked a few times. "Woah. Woah, Malfoy." He held up his hands. "Take it easy."

"It was lousy, Boot!" Draco wasn't even sure why he was lamenting over what turned out to be nothing. He was just glad the conversation was off of Potter.

"You got lost?"

Draco scoffed. "Obviously. That was your _plan,_ wasn't it?"

Terry Boot looked confused. "That you would get lost?"

"Yes!"

"In Hogwarts."

"Uh, yes?"

Terry Boot shook his head. "That doesn't even make sense. Are you listening to yourself?"

Not at all! "I should have listened to myself in the _first_ place instead of letting you talk me into _smoking_ that rubbish."

Boot rolled his eyes. "Right. Okay, Malfoy. So, that wasn't _you_ saying 'Give it here, Boot?'"

Draco lifted his chin. "That's because you _lied_ to me. You said I'd like it. Fuck—you said it would be _relaxing!_ See? You aren't trustworthy at all." Draco pointed wildly about the room.

Boot shrugged and reached into his pocket. "Sorry you didn't like it," he said, not sounding sorry at all.

Draco frowned and looked down at Boot's hand. He had another one of those damn Muggle drug sticks! He kept drugs in his pajama pockets! Boot was a complete mess.

"I knew it!" Draco shouted, gesturing at the white stick. "I knew it! You're going to make me high again! And—and try and prove that I'm—that—that I'm—"

"That you're . . . gay?"

Draco scowled. "Fuck you! I'm not."

Boot shook his head and laughed at Draco. He reached into his other pocket and pulled out Draco's wand. Boot tossed it to him in a graceful arc and Draco snatched it out of the air. "You're free to go, Malfoy. You're also free to join me. Your choice."

Draco looked to the wand in his hand and then at the door. He was free to go. But go _where_? To Potter's bedside to be arrested? To his dorm room for a night of tossing and turning? Come to think of it, Draco _had_ slept really well the last time he had, um, partaken . . .

And it hadn't killed him . . .

But it hadn't exactly relaxed him.

"Um," Draco hesitated, and rolled his wand back and forth between his palms. "Should I?"

Terry Boot lit the stick and inhaled. He shook his head at Draco, then exhaled. "Oh, no, Malfoy." He coughed. "You make your own decisions. You're not going to come back and accuse me of being a lying, manipulative deviant. It's your choice."

Draco had choices. Pansy had said as much. Draco had lots of choices. Choices held consequences, as this one undoubtedly would, but no choice was all good or all bad. There was never a right choice, was there? Just a choice with a consequence and Draco needed to decide which consequences he could live with.

Smoking Muggle drugs? A panic attack and a good night's sleep.

Not smoking Muggle drugs? A panic attack and a poor night's sleep.

He preferred the consequences of choice one, therefore, he would choose it.

Feeling strangely invigorated, Draco grandly announced, "I choose to smoke Muggle drugs."

So, Terry Boot handed him the joint and Draco made his choice.

….

….

….

"And so, the thing is," Draco said, drawing a lazy circle in the air with his finger, "every choice has a fucking consequence. Every single choice. And. _And_ we have to choose the one with the consequences that we can live with."

"Oh, yeah. Right."

"But, the problem we face is," Draco frowned and dropped his hand. What was the problem? "The problem is that um."

"The consequences."

"The consequences! Yes! _That's_ the problem, Boot! Because, wow, wait a minute." Draco shook his head. "But there are no consequences. Well, there _are_ but, everything is a consequence, right? Even the choice itself was a consequence, you know what I mean?"

"Um."

"Like, my choice to smoke Muggle weed. That was a consequence of coming in here and smashing your room to bits, right? An unforeseen consequence that was a result of a choice. A choice to smoke or not. Both choices that held consequences. "

"So, everything is a choice and a consequence."

Draco smacked the floor in rapture. "Yes!" It made sense. It all made so much sense. " _Everything_ is a choice and a consequence. Not choosing is a choice with a consequence. Choosing to choose is a choice, too." Draco rolled over onto his stomach and laughed. "Fuck. This is too much. I'm losing it. My thoughts, that is. Losing my thoughts." Draco childishly covered his head with both hands as if trying to keep a physical hold on his imagination.

"You know, you're all right, Malfoy," said Boot with a small grin.

Draco peeked up at Boot between his fingers and groaned. "Ugh, I'm _terrible_."

Boot rolled over and gently removed Draco's hands from his face. Draco blinked and tried to force his lazed features into a semblance of normalcy. "You can't keep telling yourself things like that. "

"So, I should lie to myself, then?"

"No, not lie, exactly." Boot released Draco's hands and looked up at the deadened ceiling of the Chapel. The wooden beams were firmly in place, but even they seemed to have lost their former glow. Draco felt deep sorrow and regret. How could he have destroyed something so exquisite in a fit of anger? His ugliness seemed determined to make everything around him equally ugly. "Look," said Boot. "You've done terrible shit, right?"

Draco gave a disgusted snort. "Yeah."

"You still want to do terrible shit."

Draco frowned and thought about it. No, he _didn't_ want to. Not really. But he still did it. So, on some level, Boot was right. "Sometimes."

"Mmm," Boot hummed. "Not all the time?"

"You can't do terrible shit all the time."

"Sure you can," Boot offered with careless shrug. "You-Know-Who does terrible shit all the time."

Draco felt his heart rate increase rapidly and panic overwhelm him. He clutched protectively at the neck of his robes, as though fighting off invisible strangulation. He was wrong. This was a mistake. Drugs were bad! Why had he chosen to do this to himself again? "I think I'm having a reaction," he whispered in a panic and began to squirm.

Boot snatched up his hand again and squeezed it. "Draco. Focus. Focus on me. Focus on my hand and on my voice."

"Get off me, Boot," he snapped, pulling his hand free. "Bloody weirdo."

"You don't need to be scared—"

Not be scared? Not be scared that the Dark Lord only did terrible things and that Draco still did terrible things and that Draco thought he was going to be able to switch sides? Draco couldn't _be_ good. He wasn't like Potter. Draco enjoyed hurting people. But the Dark Lord terrified Draco. The Dark Lord enjoyed hurting people—all people. People like Potter and people like Draco. Draco didn't want to be hurt by the Dark Lord and he didn't want to be a killer, but . . . _he was no Potter_! Merlin, what had he been thinking? He would never make it on the other side. He wasn't good enough. Draco would only succeed in making himself a target. On top of that, he was currently going into fucking cardiac arrest. "I DO. I _do_ need to be scared."

"You _are_ scared," Boot corrected him. "But choose not to be."

Choose not to be. Choices. "I can choose my actions. I can't choose how I feel."

Boot gave a little laugh. "Yeah. I used to think that, too." He yawned. "Once you realize that you are in control of your emotions as much as your actions, you'll truly be in control of yourself. Until then, you're only a skilled actor."

"We're all skilled fucking actors. It's all a fucking song and dance."

"Draco, believe me when I say that it isn't. For you it is. For me, it's a constant battle. You are as good a person as you believe you are. As you _truly_ believe you are. And it starts by telling yourself that you're actually all right."

Draco frowned as the room spun before him. "You think?" he heard himself ask.

"Always. I'm a Ravenclaw."

Tosser. Draco snorted and shoved Terry Boot. "Tosser," he said and then laughed because Boot had no idea how long Draco had wanted to call him that. Then Draco laughed even harder and buried his head in his arm as he shook helplessly with giggles.

Maybe Boot was right, after all. Maybe Draco could actually control his emotions. Certainly the more he had thought about being unhappy and anxious and sick, the more he had felt all of those things. Perhaps they weren't situational at all. Perhaps Draco was making himself feel those things because he believed he was awful.

Draco was raised to be superior and raised to treat those below him with disdain. Even the most basic understanding of human psychology would tell a person that these were not healthy ideals. Bullies bullied because they had low self esteem. Granted, Draco was raised to be a bully, but still. It was a simple case of what came first, the dragon or the egg?

What came first, the personality or self-esteem?

Or something.

Draco sighed and sat up. He briefly noticed that he was no longer panicking, which made him begin to panic again, so he felt around for his wand to conjure a distraction.

He couldn't find the damn thing and really, really did not feel like getting up. "Boot."

"Hm?"

"Conjure me something."

"Like food?"

Draco bit back the enthused _yes_ when he caught sight of his protruding stomach. "Er-better not."

"What do you want, a toy, Malfoy?"

Draco smirked and inclined his head. "That would be lovely."

Terry Boot picked up his wand and conjured a tiny hand-held book with a red, dragonhide cover. He tossed the book in Draco's direction. Draco reached for it, but his dulled reactions caused him to miss. The book knocked into his knee instead.

'Oh, very nice, Boot." Draco's voice was sardonic. "A book. Just what I need right now." Boot said nothing, so Draco picked up the tiny book and inspected it further. The cover was blank, so he opened it up, expecting the book to scream or sing or start reciting the terms of the 1912 Goblin Riot Peace Pact, but all Draco saw was a tiny stick figure drawing in the corner of the page. The stick figure was holding a ball high above his head and his other hand was on his hip. "The fuck is this?" Draco turned the page and it was another picture of a stick figure holding a ball above its head. He looked up at Terry Boot.

"It's a flip book," he said.

Draco blinked and looked stupidly at the book.

"You, uh, _flip_ it."

Draco frowned and then tossed the book into the air so it spun. "Like that?" he asked as he caught it.

Terry Boot burst out into laughter. "You've never seen a flip book before?"

"Sure I have. My mother gave me loads of them as a child." Why the hell was Draco lying? His mouth was moving faster than his brain, it seemed, and lying was obviously his fallback response. That was something worth considering.

"You're lying."

Draco groaned. "I know. I don't know why. This all goes back to me being terrible."

Boot smirked. "No it doesn't. You just want people to like you."

Draco scowled. What a pathetic sounding thing to say. Although, it did make sense. Why else would he lie? He wanted to people to think he was perfect so that they would like him. "That's fucking sad," he murmured, then wished he hadn't.

"It's normal," said Boot. "Here, let me show you what it does." Boot scooted forward on the floor as Draco continued to flip the book different ways, wanting to figure it out for himself.

Boot reached for the book but Draco snatched it back. "No. Let me do it. It's _mine_."

Boot held his wand up with a grin. "I could Banish it . . . "

Draco sputtered indignantly and clutched it tighter.

"It's a Muggle toy-"

Draco cut him off with a yelp and tossed the book at Boot as though it were cursed. "Why didn't you say so?" Draco demanded. "And what possessed you to give it me?"

Terry turned the book over in his hand and positioned his thumb oddly against the side of the pages. "If you want to start changing things in your life, Draco, you need to start small. This," he held up the book with both hands, "is about as small as it gets."

Well . . . it _was_ just a book. But Terry Boot called it a "Muggle toy" on purpose to get a rise out of Draco. And so he had. Damn Terry Boot. "Fine. Go on, then."

Boot lowered the book with smug grin. Bastard must have known that he couldn't resist presents and toys. Draco gave a self-deprecating eye roll. What was he, five years old? Still . . . "Well?" Draco pressed. "Go on."

"Have you ever heard of a Muggle telly?"

"Yuck." Draco wrinkled his nose then remembered what Boot had said about change and tried to iron the wrinkles out. He cleared his throat. "I mean. Yes. In Muggle Studies class. Plebeian entertainment devices made of pictures that talk. Rots minds, I hear. That's why Muggles can't read."

"Okay, Muggles _can_ read, you idiot, and yes, that's the basic concept. Have you heard of cartoons?"

"Like _Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle_?" Draco asked, remembering the comic books he used to read. Greg had loads of _Martin Miggs_ comics that he had stolen from his cousin. He used to sneak them to the Manor when they were younger and Draco would read them out loud to Greg under a blanket shack in his bedroom. Greg would build the shack, of course, by tying blankets to the gleaming oak chairs from the tea table in Draco's room. Draco would order Tibby the house-elf to conjure a light orb for the center of the shack and Draco and Greg would pretend to rough it, like Muggles. They even ate Muggle foods: marmalade sandwiches and water. Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle, used to eat Bar-be-Cue Crisps and drink fizzy soda, but Malfoy Manor did not contain anything that foul, so Draco and Greg just played make-believe with what they had.

" _Another crisp, Mister Sprocks?" Greg asked, offering Draco a square of a marmalade sandwich._

_Draco sniffed and turned away from the 'crisp.'_

" _Soda pop?"_

_Draco raised a cool eyebrow at Greg. "I suppose it will suffice, Miggs. For now." Draco took a sip of his water, then repositioned his brown paper mustache that Tibby had fastened to his face with a semi-permanent sticking charm. "But if I have to take one more bite of those vile crisps, I'll positively vomit."_

" _I'll take the rest if you don't want 'em, Draco," said Greg, reaching for a marmalade sandwich. Draco smacked his hand away. He'd already eaten four of their rations._

" _The name is Mister Sprocks to you, Miggs!" Draco pounded his finger into Goyle's plush chest and backed him into a corner of the shack. "And if you don't straighten that tie and look like a decent pencil-sharpener, then you're sacked!"_

_Draco never played the role of Martin Miggs_. _For one thing_ , _Draco wasn't mad! And two, he certainly wasn't some low-class Muggle pencil-sharpener, whatever that was. Draco was always Martin Miggs' boss, Mister Sprocks, a man with a thick mustache who yelled at Miggs and called him a "Democratic Whatsit."_

" _Sorry, Mr. Sprocks."_

" _That's more like it, Miggs. Now, finish pushing these papers and bring this," Draco held up his watch with a flourish, "to the fax machine."_

_Greg widened his eyes in terror. "The fax machine, Mr. Sprocks?" Greg took the watch with trembling fingers._

" _That's right, Miggs," Draco said. "The fax machine." Draco let out a long evil laugh. "HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAA!"_

_Greg gasped. He reached up straighten the pillow-case that was wrapped around his head, just like Martin Miggs' pork-pie hat. Draco had a pillow-case wrapped around his head, too, even though in the comic book Mister Sprocks didn't wear a pork-pie hat. He should have, though, because he was bald and proper gentlemen always covered their bald heads, or treated them with a spell. Greg slyly grabbed for a marmalade sandwich, but Draco snatched it out of his hand and threw it at his face._

" _Quit stuffing yourself on the job, Miggs, you Democratic Whatsit! There's **work** to be done!"_

_Greg gave Draco a sly look and Draco shook his head and took a step back. "No, Miggs!" Draco protested. " I-I didn't mean—!"_

" _Did someone say . . . **work**?" Greg asked, jumping to his feet._

" _Nooooo!" Draco balled his hands into two small fists and shouted to the blanket canopy._

_Both boys began to stumble in an approximation of the "Miggsy Don't Work" dance that Martin Miggs did on his desk whenever someone said the word "work." They bent their arms at odd angles and marched in a hunched circle under their blanket shack chanting "Miggsy! Martin Miggsy! Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Muggle Martin Miggs! You'll never make Martin Miggs work for you. He's magnificent! Magnanimous! Non-Magical Muggle Martin Miggs and he's saving the world without a wand!"_

_Draco always did this dance, too, even though he played Mr. Sprocks. Greg wasn't going to have all the fun, after all, so Draco was allowed to play both roles. Greg was forbidden to play Mr. Sprocks, however. When Greg had tried to bring a homemade mustache to the Manor once to play Sprocks, Draco had stolen it from him and said that if Greg didn't play Martin Miggs then Draco wouldn't be his friend anymore. Draco said that to Greg a lot but never meant it. Still, the threat always helped Draco get his own way and reaffirm who was really in control._

_After finishing the dance, Draco switched roles again. "MIGGS!" he roared. "YOOOOOOOU'RE SACKED!" The pillowcase slipped down his face and covered his eye but Draco left it there, thinking it added to the look of a disheveled Muggle boss._

_Then both boys cried, "But I don't care 'cause I'm Martin Miggs and I'm saving the world without a wand. Sayonara, Mr. Sprocks!" Draco and Greg picked up a stack of parchment scraps and threw them into the air, littering their blanket shack for Tibby to clean up later._

_Draco cleared his throat. "Ahem. Aaand so, Martin Miggs left the office, the papers and the pencil sharpener and set off once more to prove that even jobless and witless, Martin Miggs was still a working class hero," Draco said in a deep, grand voice._

" _Join us next week for the latest ed-edition," Greg stumbled and looked to Draco. Draco gave him a reassuring nod and pointed to the words on the last page of the comic book to help him. Greg smiled and continued. "of the M-misadventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle, when Martin re- real-"_

" _Realizes," Draco whispered._

" _Realizes," Greg corrected. "Thanks."_

" _Welcome."_

" _That, uh, that joblessness is not all its cracked up to be."_

" _But Miggsy still is!" Draco added his signature quip with a great wink and an elbow to Greg's fat stomach._

" _Oof," Greg clutched his stomach. "Good one, Draco." Greg was still huffing from the exertion of the "Miggsy Don't Work" dance. He plopped onto the floor and helped himself to another marmalade sandwich square._

" _Ugh, honestly, Gregory. I can't believe you enjoy that slop." Draco tried to scratch an itch under his paper mustache but he couldn't reach. He twitched his mustache from side to side and sniffed._

_Greg shrugged. "'S not so bad," he said thickly, licking the marmalade off of his hands and holding the plate out to Draco. "Crisp?"_

_Well . . . they were roughing it like the Muggles, after all. Draco reached out and took one._

Draco smiled fondly at the memory, feeling very much like he was eight years old and roughing it with Greg in his bedroom at Malfoy Manor. He wished they had blankets and chairs in the Chapel so that he could make a blanket shack and relive his youth.

God, he missed being a child. Draco sighed.

"Draco?"

"Hmm?"

"Er, you back with me?"

Draco blinked and looked at Terry Boot, who had an odd expression on his face. "Huh?"

"You were laughing hysterically and muttering about Martin Miggs and pencil sharpeners," said Boot.

Draco snorted, feeling a bit foolish. He had felt like he was really there when he had that memory. It was so vivid. These Muggle drugs were a strange and amazing thing, indeed. "Yeah, whatever. I don't know. Show me that thing now."

"What thing?" Boot asked.

"Um." Draco looked around blearily for a clue and saw the book still sitting in Terry Boot's hand. His thumb was on the side of the pages, ready to flip through. "That!" Draco shouted. "The comic book!"

Terry gave his hand a blank look, then seemed to snap out of it with a shake of his head. "Oh. Right. No, it's a flip book. It's like Muggle animation."

"Like _Martin Miggs_ ," Draco said smartly.

"No, _Martin Miggs_ is a comic on paper. He is a cartoon, yes, but on the telly, Muggles have cartoons that move. They use what is called frame-by-frame animation. That is a series of still pictures that flash by really fast. They move so quickly that the brain forms a link from picture to picture and it makes it look like the image is animated, or moving."

Draco nodded as if he understood. "But pictures already move."

"Not Muggle pictures."

"Oh. Right."

"And," he added, "in a way it is better than wizard pictures, because the image can continue moving for as long as you want. You just have to make enough pictures, or frames. Wizard photos only last for a few seconds, and charmed drawings only last for a few minutes at the most. Cartoons, which are stories made with a series of fast-moving pictures, can last hours and hours. Days, even, if you make enough pictures."

Draco nodded again although he wasn't really listening. What did Martin Miggs have to do with any of this? Wait-had Boot brought up Martin Miggs? No, that was Draco. Wait a minute. What the hell were they talking about? "Uh huh."

"Does that make sense?"

"I have no fucking idea what you're blathering on about," Draco admitted. "And what the hell does it have to do with _Martin Miggs_?"

Boot let out an exasperated breath. "Just. Pay attention, Malfoy. I never said anything about bloody _Martin Miggs_. That was you."

"Oh. It was?" Draco frowned. Shit. He wasn't making any sense. Boot must think he was so stupid. How come Boot didn't sound stupid? It was just Draco. Stupid Draco. "Fuck. Sorry. I don't what I'm saying."

Boot laughed. "Just watch." Draco focused on the book in Boot's hand. Then Boot began to flip through the pages of the book with his thumb—ah, _flip_ book—and the little stick figure with the ball over his head and his hand on his hip began to move. The ball soared high into the air as Boot flipped the pages and the little man wiggled his hips and sashayed with girlish attitude as the ball hovered high overhead.

"Whoa," Draco murmured as the pictures continued to flip by.

The little man did a split as the ball descended, then he rolled over onto his back and caught the ball. The man gave the ball a tiny toss, then lifted his stick leg and kicked it high back into the air. The stick man stood up and did a quick cartwheel under the ball. He caught the ball then began to dribble it in the corner of the page. A hoop with a net slid into view and the stick figure threw the ball into the hoop. The ball bounced and rolled away and the stick figure resumed his stance, now with both hands on his hips.

The book closed and Draco laughed gleefully. That flip book was the coolest thing he'd ever seen. Boot began to flip it again, but Draco snatched it away from him. He positioned his thumb the way Boot had and began to flip through the book, too. At first he went too fast and the image was disjointed. Then he slowed down and it just looked like a bunch of different pictures. Draco frowned at it.

"You have to get the speed just right. In Muggle animation, its twelve to twenty-four frames per second. That means pictures per second. That speed causes our brains, which expect movement, to compensate and make a connection between the images."

Draco tried again and got it right. The little man danced about with attitude and played with the bouncing ball. "Cool."

Boot nodded. "Yeah. I actually made that. It wasn't Conjured, I had it in my bag."

"Hmm." Draco was captivated by the little story in his hands that he was controlling with the tilt of his thumb.

"You can't really Conjure something that's a precise art. I had to hand draw each of those pictures in succession. Each page changes just slightly."

Draco stopped flipping and studied the pages, noting the tiny changes in the figure's arms and legs and the hoop that appeared into the book starting as just a dot and building page by page. "This must have taken ages."

Terry Boot shrugged. "That one wasn't so bad. Stick figures and balls are really simple. But Muggle cartoons," Boot stopped and shook his head. "The detail, the time. It's astounding. They make it so life-like. And they've got loads of characters and the characters are all moving and changing and _blinking_ and shit."

"Wow. " Draco was admiring the detail that Terry Boot had used in his simple flip book. "I want to see."

Terry Boot grinned. If Draco wasn't so high, he would have noticed the smug look on his face. "Just so happens I know a cinematic charm. I've linked it to several videos that I got from Anthony's house, so I have a mini-movie charm lexicon," Boot bragged.

"Well?" Draco asked. "Show me."

Boot raised an eyebrow, then lifted his wand and aimed it at one of the ruined walls and windows of the room. The wall glowed momentarily, then the glow dulled to a chalky white as the windows and wood melded together into a stark, white wall. "We'll use this as the screen," he said, eagerly. "I've never done it this big before. It's going to be _wicked_."

Draco pulled his eyes away from his flip-book and gave Terry Boot a considering look. How was it that Draco kept ending up alone with Terry Boot? Boot really was a weirdo. At the moment, Draco didn't really care, but somewhere in the back of his mind he had to remind himself that Terry Boot really was a bit of a weirdo. Boot was brilliant, yes, and generous and kind, but . . . the way he tossed his hair and the odd big-eyed smiles he gave and the way he always held eye-contact for an uncomfortably long amount of time made Draco uneasy. Boot gave him the creeps. On top of that, Boot was a know-it-all and, while he appeared enormously accepting of Draco's shortcomings, Terry Boot seemed to radiate a self-righteousness that left Draco feeling judged. On top of that, those crazy eyes of his seemed to read Draco's thoughts and emotions, leaving him exposed and vulnerable.

Suddenly, the wall flared to life with black and white pictures and grand, classical music surrounded Draco in sound. He gasped and looked at Boot.

"Remember, this is not magic, Draco. These are pictures. Hand-drawn. Twelve per second, like your flip book. Each picture is painted with color and the music is played by a symphony of hands."

Draco gaped at the moving image of a mouse wearing Muggle clothing and a captain's hat. The mouse whistled and danced and _blinked_ as he happily steered a ship with a big, wooden wheel. The orchestra of sound tore through Draco, leaving him completely enraptured. "Shite."

The picture changed then and suddenly a duck with a U-shaped _magnet_ was sucking some tool up into a room of pipes and skipping around on his bending webbed feet. The sound of water splashing happened when the duck got splashed by a spray. The duck opened his mouth and Draco head quacking sounds. The picture then showed a dog sniffing a bone and lifting his ears to listen and it was all so _real_ looking but so fake and he could hardly tell that he was watching pictures at all. "B-but, that can't be still _pictures!_ " he spluttered.

"Amazing, right?" said Terry Boot and looked right at him. Boot had that predatory look on his face again and Draco remembered how he thought Boot was going to try and make a move on him. He looked away quickly.

They watched for a while and Boot explained that this was actually very simple animation and that he'd like to show him the kind of cutting-edge animation that Muggles were currently developing. "It looks _better_ than real life," he insisted.

Draco did not want to admit it, but picture animation was fascinating. "I want to make a flip book," he announced.

"All you need is a blank book and a quill."

Draco yawned, feeling suddenly tired. "Yeah," he agreed, closing his eyes and imagining his own cartoon. Maybe he could animate an old _Martin Miggs_ comic? Maybe he could make it with pictures of himself and Greg. Draco was pretty decent at drawing. Malfoy and Goyle; Upper-class Heroes. He could do it.

Or maybe he could make a different kind of hero. Potter was a hero. Maybe he could make a hero flip book about Potter saving the world against the forces of darkness. Yeah. Potter saves everyone. The bad guy would be the Dark Lord, of course. Potter would swoop in and save the Muggles and the kittens. He could save Draco, maybe. Yeah. Just fly in on a broomstick and rescue him from the Dark Lord's clutches.

No. Heroes had to save heroines. Potter would swoop in and save the Mudblood or that girl Weasel, Gerty. Draco would be some supporting character. Not important enough to save, not important enough to help. The Weasel already had the role of noble sidekick. The bad guy was already taken. But Potter needed a boss, right? Someone to tell him what to do in his undercover life and treat him like shite while Potter put up with it all to keep up appearances . . . Right. Draco could play Mister Sprocks, the arsehole boss, pushing papers all over the place and threatening to sack Potter every time he did something Draco didn't like.

But in the flip book, Sprocks wouldn't poison Potter. Sprocks was a bad guy in his own right, but never on the side of evil. Sprocks was greedy and he made Potter's life a living hell, but the boss serves himself, not Potter and not the Dark Lord.

Yeah. Draco would be Mister Sprocks. He just needed a paper mustache.

….

….

….

Lightning coursed his veins, burning sharply through him. Harry was shrouded in boiling, watery blackness. He could hear his breaths from somewhere outside of his body, shallow, but even.

He was breathing. That was good. Last he remembered, he couldn't breathe, so this was an improvement.

But his body . . . Merlin! Everything felt like it was on fire and he felt so weak, so tired. He struggled to escape the blackness and the sleep but he couldn't. Harry was stuck, stuck, stuck inside his mind.

_Please, please don't let this be permanent_.

Harry fought to open his physical eyes, but was faced with nothing but blobby, blue shapes of plasma drifting lazily through the expanse. The expanse was endless and edging its horizon were images that appeared to be rooms. Each room was the leftover remnants of the dreams he had been unconsciously experiencing.

Now, however, Harry was conscious of his unconsciousness and he wasn't sure where to go or what to do. He wanted to wake up. He wanted to know what had happened.

Poison. He had been poisoned, he was sure of it. Malfoy had said so, right? He'd shouted it at Slughorn.

As Harry drank the mead, Malfoy had seemed to know that Harry was being poisoned . . .

The sharp stinging in Harry's veins gave a sudden surge and Harry groaned. Malfoy _knew_.

Yes, the more Harry thought about it, the more it seemed to make sense. Malfoy's face had given away the knowledge of poison seconds before Harry had actually experienced the effects.

Had Malfoy poisoned him? Was _that_ Malfoy's task?

A different kind of pain began to lace through him. Had Malfoy's task been to poison Harry?

Harry was suddenly overwhelmed with stinging betrayal. Malfoy had sought to kill Harry, after all. All along.

Merlin, Harry was a fool. And—bloody hell! Malfoy had basically _told_ him and Harry-stupid Harry!-had refused to listen. He'd been too blinded by his infatuation to see the truth. Malfoy was . . .

_A siren_ , Harry thought and scoffed, unable to think of a better word.

No, actually he had plenty of other words—bastard, for one—that were fighting for prominence in his mind. But it was so much worse than that. Harry had stupidly, stupidly trusted Malfoy.

Christ! Malfoy flat out _told_ him not to trust him. He _told_ Harry this was going to end in his pain. He _said_ to stay away from him!

And Harry hadn't listened. Harry had continued to "trust his instincts" instead of listening to a flat out warning. This was just like with Sirius and Harry's refusal to Occlude his mind. Harry had ignored blatant warnings and sound advice, instead running about, making choices based on whims of fancy and, as a result, someone had _died._ Now Harry was going to die.

Just as well, Harry thought, miserably. Better that he was out of the way instead of allowing his irresponsibility to endanger the lives of others.

Then he remembered the prophecy and cursed himself. It was Harry or Voldemort. If Harry died, Voldemort would take over and that couldn't happen. Harry had to beat this.

Malfoy. Cold-hearted bastard. Killer. No wonder the fuck was so miserable all year. Harry had lingered around while Malfoy put on a constant front, plotting his demise all the while.

The "Malfoy" name had always been synonymous with "Death Eater." There was nothing else to it. In fact, their whole interaction that year had probably been some enormous Slytherin plot to fuck with Harry's mind. The fact that Malfoy warned Harry away from him was probably planned. The cunning bastard had toyed with him intentionally. Everything Harry saw . . . it wasn't weakness! Malfoy had planned it all, _all_ of it. Malfoy preyed on Harry's emotions and saving-people thing and made himself look like a victim of his family's allegiances.

And somewhere along the way, Harry had fallen for it all. Fallen for . . .

Fallen for his tricks.

Malfoy would make a great Death Eater, Harry thought bitterly. He was manipulative, he was cold, and fucking hell, was he a skilled actor. Malfoy had probably received private theater training on how to act like a human being without actually being one.

Act one: Show vulnerability. Pretend to cry when you know someone is watching.

Act two: Look the part. Lose weight, gain weight. Glamour some dark circles under your eyes.

Act three: Arrange to entrap oneself in a shack with the enemy. Act like a human. Cast an illness hex and pretend to care for the enemy.

Act four: Take a vow of silence. Let the weakened enemy come. Kiss him.

Act five: Kill him.

Close curtain. Standing ovation.

Fuck, Malfoy had probably faked _everything_. Maybe he hadn't even been drunk at the Broomsticks! Why would Madame Rosmerta serve Firewhisky to a bunch of 6th years, anyway?

From the start, Malfoy had probably faked it. "Draught of Peace" overdose? Please. Malfoy was a Potions expert. He would have known better. How could Harry have ignored the blaring facts?

But the blood . . . well, the blood was real, no doubt about that. And Madame Pomfrey _said_ he'd had Acute Potion Poisoning. She wouldn't lie about that. And the Sleeping Charm thing. Pomfrey wouldn't lie about that either.

And Malfoy in his dreams . . . that was just . . . unexplainable.

Okay, maybe some things were real. It was possible that plotting one's first murder might take some sort of a physical toll. Fine. So Malfoy wasn't as strong as he pretended. That wasn't news. So Malfoy was a bit of a coward. Again, not news. He was probably just afraid of going to Azkaban like dear old dad, or failing at his task and having to own up to Voldemort.

But Voldemort would want to vanquish Harry himself. He wouldn't give that task to piddling Draco Malfoy, would he? Voldemort would not hand his moment of glory to some stupid kid.

Fuck. It just didn't make any sense.

Harry wished he could force Veritaserum down Malfoy's throat to find out the truth.

But why? Why did Harry care so much if Malfoy was telling the truth? Why did Harry feel this need to trust him? He needed to be responsible and just back off.

The sharp burning had dulled to a hot, thudding ache. With nothing else to do, Harry drifted forward through the plasma. A cerulean blob shifted alongside a soft, powder blue. Harry dove into the powder blue blob, lazily pushing through its viscosity. Beyond the blob lay two dream snatches. One was the shadow of a graveyard at night. Mist-shrouded tombstones were sprinkled under a drooping tree. Harry had a sneaking suspicion of what that dream was and he had no intention of entering it willingly.

To the right he saw grey stone walls and a fire-it sconce, replicated into eternity as if through a double-mirror image. This looked like the castle. Harry also thought he knew this dream. It was certainly a better option than the graveyard. He stepped over the waving threshold of the image. His body was sucked forward and Harry was thrown violently into the dream.

The image was now sharp and clear. Harry fell against the hard stone and it sent a shock of pain through him. Surprisingly, the only pain Harry felt in the dream was the pain caused by his fall and not the all-encompassing burn of the poison. Breathing heavily, he drew himself up to his feet.

He wondered if Draco Malfoy was there, like he usually was. "Malfoy?" he called out, his voice cracking. Harry wasn't sure how he would act if he found the bloody bastard in his damn dream. Would he try and lull Malfoy into a false sense of security and play him at his own manipulative game or would he beat the living shit out of the arse the minute he saw his sneering face?

Then again, it was possible that Malfoy wouldn't be here at all.

Harry started down the steps, calling out Malfoy's name, but getting no response. As Harry descended further, he could sense music from below. It was the sound of an orchestra playing " _Row, Row, Row your Boat_." Harry frowned and strained to hear more. The music seemed to crackle out of a staticky, old record player. It sounded like the kind of music Mrs. Figg used to play for Harry.

Then he heard a voice. _Donald Duck_? Harry thought. Donald Duck was singing "Row, Row, Row your Boat?" Harry fought back laughter. Good God. This was what he was dreaming? Weird. So weird.

Harry wondered what he would say when he ran into Donald Duck in the Potions classroom. Maybe Harry was a cartoon, too? He glanced briefly at himself. Nope, just Harry. Too bad. That would have been neat.

Anyway, this dream certainly seemed like an amusing distraction and was much preferred to a confrontation with Malfoy or reliving Diggory's death.

Harry heard laughter then. Cool, familiar laughter. His heart stopped.

"Pluto! What an excellent name," the voice drawled lazily. "Though I don't believe he'd fit into the scheme of things. No, definitely not. Some other. . . Dobby. Yes. Dobby can be the little creature fellow. Always good for a laugh. Mmm." He giggled again.

The Potions classroom swam into view and Harry gaped. Malfoy was lying on the floor on his back with his legs bent at the knee and crossed. His hands were folded under his head and light flickered blue and white over him from the old-fashioned projector that was rolling film at his side. The wall of the room had been turned into a projection screen and familiar Muggle cartoon characters danced about on the enormous display.

Malfoy tilted his head back until his eyes fell on Harry. They stared at each other for a moment before Malfoy blinked then widened his eyes in shock. He sat bolt upright and scrambled into a crouching position, his eyes taking in the room and Harry in quick succession.

"The fuck is this?" he breathed, then he lost his balance in his crouch and teetered to the side. Malfoy caught himself and did a one-armed crab-walk to the furthest corner. He never took his eyes off Harry.

The scene was startlingly unexpected. Malfoy looked like he had seen a ghost, or whatever it was that scared Pureblood wizards.

Harry was too thrown off by Malfoy's behavior to display any violent ire. Plus, who could be angry when silly cartoons were flashing about the room? Harry decided to play it cool for a few minutes before really laying into him.

Malfoy, however, brought his hands up to his face and patted around as if checking that his face was still there. He looked down at his body and pressed his hands tightly against his cheeks. "Fucking Muggles," he said to Harry.

"Pardon me?" Harry asked, losing the first layer of his cool visage. If the wanker was going to spit out racist comments then Harry's composure was not going to last long.

Malfoy gulped and squinted blearily at Harry. He seemed to mouth something that looked like 'What the fuck?' then fixed the floor with a disbelieving stare. "It talks," he murmured. He looked back up at Harry. "Fucking Muggles," he repeated.

Harry was beginning to get confused. What did this dream mean? Malfoy was watching Muggle cartoons. Did Harry look like some Muggle or something? Did Malfoy even know any Muggles? Doubtful. "Er—do you know who I am?"

Malfoy's face turned hopelessly sad. He frowned. "Potter," he whispered, more to himself than to Harry. "But why are you here? What is this? And," Malfoy looked about the room, suddenly alarmed. He smacked his hands on the ground. "And where the fuck is Terry Boot?"

"Terry Boot?" Harry asked, taking another step into the room.

"Oh, Merlin," Malfoy gasped, placing two fingers against his pulse point. "It's. Oh _shite_. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck."

Anger surged suddenly through Harry. Clearly, this was another act. Maybe the point of this dream was to point out to Harry that Malfoy was an enormous liar. "Oh, yes. That's right. Poor, vulnerable Malfoy. What's wrong now? Another anxiety attack?" Harry sneered and laughed cruelly. "You're completely pathetic."

But Malfoy wasn't looking at him. He was arching his back and blinking rapidly. "Shut up! Just shut up and stop talking!" Malfoy said in a strangled voice.

"No. I have something to say and you're bloody well going to listen to me!"

"YOU AREN'T REAL!" Malfoy shrieked, suddenly. "No. Fuck! It's—Boot! Fucking liar! Fucking psycho! Oh God. I'm such an idiot. Stupid, stupid." Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut and started rocking back and forth. "I'm dying. I'm dying. No! I've died. I'm in _Hell_! He's killed me and I'll be haunted by _you_ for the rest of my days!"

" _You're_ dying?" Harry shouted back, rounding on Malfoy who was curled up in a ball, his fingers still pressed on his pulse as he inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. "Are you joking? _I'm_ dying!"

Malfoy moaned.

"Thanks to _you!"_ Harry added, dropping to his knees and shoving Malfoy on the shoulder.

Malfoy jerked back from his touch. "I know! I know you are!" Malfoy's voice cracked.

Harry wanted to be angry. He wanted to hit Malfoy in the face, but something clamped tightly over his throat. Malfoy's presence was playing with Harry's emotions something terrible. Hatred could no longer surface. The pain and hurt and confusion that Harry felt was crippling. His throat felt tight, but he had to ask. "Why?"

A loud, room-shaking horn honked in the cartoon. Harry and Malfoy both glanced up at the screen. Donald Duck was holding what looked like a horn. The horn had a mouth with lips. The mouth cried out "A- _WOOOOOO-_ GA!" Sound waves shook through Donald Duck's house and little pictures fell off the walls and crashed to the ground. A fish tank exploded from the sound and water and flopping goldfish rushed out of the shattered glass into a puddle on the floor.

Malfoy covered his face and snorted into his hands. His shoulders shook helplessly with laughter and Harry wanted to throttle him. Was Harry's life worth so little?

"TERRY!" Malfoy suddenly screamed into his hands. "I NEED HELP! TERRY, TAKE ME TO THE HOSPITAL WING! I'M EXPERIENCING INTENSE, INTENSE, INTENSE HALLUCINATIONS!"

Harry drew back. What the hell was Malfoy on about? Why did Malfoy keep mentioning Terry Boot?

Malfoy peeked at Harry over his fingers. His hair was disheveled and his heavy-lidded gray eyes were bloodshot slits in his face. He giggled softly and shoved Harry on the shoulder. "Potter," he snorted, oddly amused. "Right."

Harry stumbled, but said nothing. This was possibly the strangest dream he had ever had.

"You. Aren't. _REAL_." Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut. "Go away, Potter. Go away, Potter. I can _choose_ to have you not here. Yeah. I choose to be alone. I'm in the Chapel. In the Chapel with Terry Boot. No Potter. Terry Boot. Chapel. Yes." Malfoy took a deep breath and nodded to himself. "When I open my eyes I will be in the Chapel with Terry Boot." He exhaled slowly, then opened his left eye, then his right. "Shite."

Harry decided to put his own issues to the side in favor of his curiosity. "What is with you?"

Malfoy pressed his lips together in some semblance of a smile. He made a little squeaky noise. "Ahhh. . . . ha."

"Are you real?" Harry murmured. Maybe this wasn't actually Malfoy this time. Maybe this was just a regular dream.

Malfoy's jaw dropped into an open-mouthed smile. Malfoy held this look for nearly ten seconds. He looked so ridiculous that Harry nearly burst out laughing.

Malfoy blinked. "Are _you_ real?" he whispered, still gaping. Malfoy reached out a hand and touched Harry's cheek. Harry slapped his hand away, amusement suddenly gone.

"Don't touch me," Harry growled. "You don't have the fucking right."

Blue light flickered over Malfoy casting dark shadows. His features puckered together and he swallowed. "You're right," he said. "I don't." Malfoy pulled his hand back to himself and squeezed it into a tight fist. "Figures. Even a fake Potter knows."

"I'm not fake. You're in my dream."

"Right," Draco scoffed. "You would say that. I'm fucked enough to hallucinate a Potter and the situation is same bloody one as my fucked reality. You couldn't just like me, could you? I couldn't just be decent, could I? No, no. Same fucking shit. No fucking escape."

Warning bells rang in Harry's head and this time he listened. He was being manipulated. Step back, step back. "Why do you keep saying you're hallucinating?"

Draco gave a lazy grin. "Ah. Because one minute, I'm smoking Muggle drugs with Terry Boot in the ruins of the Chapel and the next minute I'm watching cartoons with you in the dungeon. And you're fucking _unconscious_!" he spat. "So, put two and two together, 'Potter!'" Malfoy made air quotes with his fingers.

"I already did, _Malfoy_ , and I know who poisoned the mead."

Something flickered across Malfoy's face and a moment later he had pulled himself to his feet along the screen wall. The projector flashed a crooked image of Donald Duck waving a wing up and down Malfoy's limber frame. Malfoy steadied himself with his arms and began to weave unevenly through the desks in the classroom, heading for the door.

"And where do you think you're going?" Harry asked, jumping to his feet, too. This was his dream, damn it. He had Malfoy right where he wanted him.

And where was that, exactly? Half-mad and claiming to be stoned?

"I can't. I can't. I can't do this, Potter. I'll say something and. No. I can't. Terry Boot will hear me." Malfoy stumbled into the door of the Potions classroom. He turned a distressed face to Potter. "Potter."

Harry walked up next to him and raised an eyebrow.

"If," Malfoy looked like he was struggling to get the words out. "If . . . Do you really think this is your dream?" he whispered, fixing Harry with an imploring look.

"I told you. I'm real. This is my dream right now. Dreaming is about all I _can_ do, thanks to you."

Draco looked at the ceiling. "Shite."

"Too bad this is a dream and you can't just finish me off for good, isn't it?"

Draco's eyes flashed to Harry. "No," he croaked. "That's not what I—"

Malfoy. _Lying._ He was lying. But it seemed so real. "You're a liar," Harry hissed. "You're a sick, manipulative monster."

Malfoy grasped his throat and swallowed. "Yes . . . but—but _no!_ That's—you don't understand!"

Harry made a disgusted sound. "I understand plenty. But don't worry, Malfoy. I have only myself to blame. I fooled myself into thinking you could actually be human. I knew you were a bastard, but I never you were as cold and sick as Voldemort. Guess the joke was on me, huh?"

Fury flashed across Malfoy's face and he suddenly slammed Harry against the other side of the door frame. "I am _not!_ " he hissed. "Take it back. I'm not—I'm _nothing_ like him!"

Harry shoved him back and Malfoy staggered. "You're a cold-hearted murderer. You're only worried about your own pathetic hide. You would manipulate and twist people's emotions in an elaborate game just to lure them in and kill them," Harry spat. "In fact, you're fucking worse than Voldemort. At least he doesn't pretend to be something he isn't."

Malfoy's eyes were squeezed shut and he was swallowing rapidly. "It was an accident," he whispered, his breath hitching. "I swear, I swear it was."

Whatever emotion Malfoy was pretending to convey wasn't true. Harry wasn't going to fall for it. But when a tear rolled out of Malfoy's eye and down his pale cheek, Harry had to fight himself not to wipe it away. "Poison is not an accident," Harry said.

Malfoy made a slight guttural noise and opened his eyes. He wiped the tear off his cheek and took a shaking breath. "No," he whispered. "It wasn't an accident. But—but you weren't supposed to bloody drink it!"

So Malfoy hadn't intended the poison for Harry? That was . . . but _no!_ That didn't make it better. Malfoy had still tried to poison someone. He was still everything that Harry said he was. Right?

Harry looked at the miserable shaking frame in front of him.

Right?

"What," Harry took a steadying breath. "What do you mean?"

Malfoy's shoulders slumped against the wall. "I don't know. I don't know, Potter. I don't think you're even real right now and Terry Boot might be listening to everything I'm saying and—"

Harry threw his arms in the air then. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Malfoy let out a helpless little laugh. "Potter. I am high. I am high as _fuck_ on Muggle weed." He shrugged. "They took you to the Hospital Wing and Pansy said I was not allowed to check on you and I couldn't sleep so I went. Um. I couldn't sleep and I went . . . went . . . uh."

Harry widened his eyes. Was Malfoy telling the truth? The effects of the Sleeping Charm on Malfoy always seemed to propel Malfoy and Harry into each other's dreams. Was Malfoy actually _here_ and _high_ and tapping into his subconscious right now?

"Uh . . . shite. I know this is serious, Potter, but I forgot what I saying." Malfoy's forehead was wrinkled in confusion. "Ah, fuck. It was important."

Harry raised his eyebrows. It was true. Malfoy was here and he was stoned out of his bloody mind. "Um, you were saying that you couldn't sleep after Slughorn's party so you . . . left?" Harry ventured a guess.

Malfoy's eyes lit up. "Yes! Yeah. Yes. I left and I came here." He pointed to the room and then frowned. "Well, not _here_ , I went to the Chapel. Boot's chapel and I, um. Well, Boot came and made me smoke Muggle drugs with him and watch Muggle cartoons, but something's obviously wrong because-because!" Malfoy took several deep and desperate-looking breaths. "Why the fuck are you _here?_ Oh God, you have to get me out of here!"

"I'm unconscious in the Hospital Wing, remember?" Harry said, wryly.

Malfoy's brows drew together. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." Malfoy reached forward quickly and clapped a tight hand onto Harry's shoulder. "Um. Look at me for a minute, Potter."

Harry fought the urge to shove him off. He fixed him with a baleful glare. "What?"

"I'm really sorry," Malfoy said, sincerely. "If this is really even you, Potter. Shite. I am so sorry."

"Yeah sure. Right."

"I am—"

"Get off me." Harry finally shrugged out of his grasp.

Malfoy's eyes were pained. He wrung his hands together. "Look—I'm not in the best condition to explain myself right now," he admitted, helplessly. "And I'm probably not making any fucking sense. But, this is _serious_. I know what we're talking about is serious, so . . . so just shut up and listen to me!"

Malfoy grabbed him by the shoulder and shook it. "Just—wake _up,_ Potter! You have to wake up!"

Harry knocked his hands away. Malfoy needed to stop touching him. Really. "Why, so you can get out of this nightmare?"

"Yeah, that too." Malfoy shook his head. "But _no_. I'm saying don't die! You can't die!"

Harry gave Malfoy a nasty smile. "And why's that, again? Afraid Voldemort will skin your arse when he realizes you took away his glory kill? I know his little Death Eaters are supposed to 'spare me.' I'm not stupid."

Harry was met with a blank stare until Malfoy fully comprehended the words. His face twisted up. "No! Damn it! Don't you listen? _No, Potter_. That's not what I bloody mean!"

Harry was not going to get hopeful. He'd learned his lesson. "I believed you before, Malfoy, and I was an idiot."

Malfoy wrapped his arms tightly around himself and pressed his lips together. "If you come out of this, I'll give you a reason to believe me."

"Maybe I don't want to believe you."

Malfoy swallowed and drew tightly into himself. He looked very small. "P-Pansy says that, that if I haven't killed anyone then I'm not a murderer." He trembled slightly. "D-Do you reckon she's right?"

Harry was stunned. These were not the concerns of a Death Eater. And to mention Pansy . . . Pansy had been at Slughorn's party, too.

A sudden hazy memory of Pansy clinging to a hysterical Malfoy flashed through Harry's mind. Malfoy had been insane at that party, hadn't he? Pansy'd had to console Malfoy. Had to calm him down and drag him away from Harry. Apparently, she'd also assured him that he was no murderer.

Would a cold-hearted monster even care? Would Malfoy bother to keep up the manipulative pretense with Pansy?

Harry looked at the wreck of a boy. Malfoy was hardly capable of forming rational sentences, let alone weaving a series of lies. "Do _you_ think she's right?" Harry asked, gently.

Malfoy's breath heaved twice then leveled out again. "Dunno," he whispered. "I always thought people were born a certain way. Destined for things, you know? But—Boot believes we can change. Small changes. You know. Evil to good. . . . Flip-books to the Light Side and all of that." He lifted his hand from his chest and made a half-hearted gesture before pulling it back against himself. "That-that if I don't want to hurt anyone . . . That somehow that'll be enough."

Harry didn't want to say the wrong thing, though he felt Malfoy was so lost in his own thoughts in that moment, that it probably didn't matter what he said. "I think people have choices . . . and our choices determine who we are."

Malfoy gave a small laugh. "Right. Choices. Of course." He looked wildly around, and spread his arms to the expanse of the room. "Look around you. _This_ was my first choice, Potter. I chose _this_. This. You. All of it. God. I've made all of this happen. The consequences. So many consequences."

"What are you saying?"

Malfoy snorted and it sounded looser than his usual controlled laughter. "Choosing to smoke Muggle drugs. _That_ was my first big choice of the night. I thought about it really hard and then I chose it. And look where I ended up." He made a disgusted sound.

"Yeah," Harry said, "with me. Apologizing."

Malfoy stilled. "Wait. You accept it? You believe me?" His hopeful tone was filled with self-doubt.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know yet. I haven't even woken up."

Malfoy looked pained. "Yeah." He rubbed his hands over his arms and shivered. "Yeah."

"Draco!" a voice hissed. "Wake up, you prat!"

Malfoy's mouth curled up in a smug grin. He raised an eyebrow. "See? I told you Terry Boot was hanging about. That's him." Malfoy pointed at the ceiling.

Harry was about to respond when Malfoy began to flicker out of focus. "Wait!" Harry cried out and grabbed for him. "Wait-wait, before you go—"

"What?" Malfoy asked, impatiently. He was obviously eager to escape Harry's mind. Well, so was Harry, for that matter, but not everyone had a Terry Boot to wake them up when they needed it.

"Um, just that—Pansy's right!" Harry cried. "And so is Boot. If-I don't know if I believe you or not. But if you're telling the truth, then, yeah, you still have a choice. And if I live, I won't think of you as a murderer, okay?"

A relieved look crossed Malfoy's face. He gave a hesitant smile, as if not daring to believe it, and grasped Harry's hands in his own.

"DRACO!"

Malfoy glanced up quickly then looked back at Harry. "Do you promise?"

Harry looked at his urgent face. There was obviously more to this than Harry knew, but he meant what he had said. "Yes, Malfoy. If you sincerely want to change, then you still have a choice."

Malfoy looked suddenly panicked. "But-if you don't wake up! If—if I've ki—what if you die? What then?"

Harry didn't know what to say. If that happened then Malfoy would most definitely be a murderer. But . . . "You'll still have a choice. You'll always have a choice."

"Wake up, you idiot!" the voice shouted. "Someone's coming!"

"But," Draco gritted his teeth, ignoring the voice. "If you die, he'll _win_ , Potter! What then?"

Harry could see Malfoy fading now, could no longer feel his hands. "That doesn't mean he'll have you," Harry said quickly, the words coming out rushed, but they were important and he had to say them. If Malfoy meant what he said then Harry couldn't die only to have Malfoy go straight back to Voldemort, thinking he had no other choice. "Not unless you let him. Don't let him have you. You're not his, Malfoy. Okay? You are not his!"

Harry was left alone in the room and a moment later he was sucked out of the dream and spit into the plasma of his mind. The burning pain stabbed him and he swam quickly through the blue blobs to escape into the next dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Review! Thank you to those of you who reviews chapter 15! Sorry I didn't get around to responding-I was on vacation in Boston this week... I know I promised lots of writing this summer-but now my computer's battery seems like it isn't charging so . . . hopefully that doesn't cause any major issues, but I'm sure it will. Anyway! Thanks again for the support! I had had a back log, I guess, of chapter that I was editing as I went along. Now I have to really get back into the writing and I'm a bit nervous. I know the story is within me, but I'm afraid I'm losing my confidence... I'll try harder, though. I'm having a lot of trouble w ch 17 (this one, too) and most of my time has been spent cutting huge chunks of the story and flat out deleting them. Anyway-cheer me on if you want me to keep writing! hahaha - Kristen


	17. Chapter 17

“Wake up, Draco!”

“Hmm?” Draco cracked one eye open. “Potter?”

Terry Boot was staring down at him, the garish green light of the Chapel shone behind his auburn head. “What? No. It’s—”

“Boot!” Draco sat bolt upright, feeling supremely disoriented. He rubbed his head with hand, blinking about. “Wha . . .I fell—?”

What had just happened? Draco could still remember it. He could very clearly see where he had just been and there was no way that it had been a regular dream. Or if it had been a regular dream, then it was one of those dreams, those Potter dreams in the damn dungeons and he—

Wait. What had Potter said to him? It was important. Extremely important because the more awake Draco began to feel, the more certain he was that Potter had been reaching out to him through his dream . . . through his coma.

Oh, God. Potter knew what Draco had done.

Potter was alive, though. His mental faculties were all intact, right? It hadn’t seemed like any holes had been burned into his mind or anything . . .though Draco couldn’t be sure if the dream had been his dream, Potter’s dream or something else entirely.

Draco reached forward and grasped Boot’s shoulders, bringing himself up to a seated position and knocking Boot out of his crouch and onto the floor. Draco kept his fingers in Boot’s shoulders and dug in, desperately. “What in the fuck is this shite?” Draco demanded. “Tell me, Boot. What just happened to me?”

Boot tucked his feet under his knees and gave Draco a funny smile. “What do you mean? The weed?”

Draco was not up for any more of Boot’s bullshit games. “Yes,” he hissed. The neck of Goyle’s brown sweater drooped over his shoulder, causing him to feel as mad as he probably looked. “That—that didn’t happen last time, you never said that would happen!”

“What? You fell asleep . . .?” Boot shook his head and frowned. “Are you okay?”

“No! That was not asleep, Boot. That was . . . buggering Potter was . . .” Draco blinked, trying to hold onto the last visages of the dream before they disappeared. He’d said something . . .

Boot raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Oh, Potter. Dreaming of Potter, are you?”

Draco flared and grasped Boot’s collar, giving it a shake. “Stop fucking with me, Boot! And get me a bloody quill and parchment.” Draco shoved Boot and he fell back onto the ground with a thud.

Terry Boot brushed off his shoulders, all traces of amusement gone. “I’ve not done anything to you, Malfoy. And besides that, we have to go. I could hear someone doing rounds in the hallway and I don’t know how long these enchantments will hold.” Boot gestured to the room and headed for his bag.

Draco scrambled to his feet. Boot was lying. Why did he look so bloody sly? Did he know something? Had he heard Draco say something when he was out of it? He didn’t usually talk in his sleep, but that hadn’t exactly been an average night’s rest, either. “What was that about Potter?” Draco heard himself ask.

Terry Boot gave him a funny look, as if he wanted to grin but was unsure of Draco’s reaction. “Er. You…” he spread his hands out palms up and shrugged. “Like him?”

Oh, right. Boot had watched Draco kiss Potter. And Draco just said he’d dreamt of him. Boot was . . . just being an idiot. And Draco suddenly felt like a huge arse.

Draco needed to just stop. Stop talking, stop trying, stop getting involved. Everything he put his hand in turned into a giant cock-up. He managed to make a mess of everything. Everything. It had always been that way and now he was in over his head and his ridiculous string of mistakes was going to start costing people their lives. 

How was it that Draco always managed to do the wrong thing?

Terry Boot approached him hesitantly. “Come on,” he said in a low voice. “We need to leave.”  
Draco was so beside himself with what had just happened that he had to tell Boot, he just had to. “I saw Potter.”

Fuck. Fuck. Why had he just said that?

“Oh?” Terry Boot asked, his face neutral.

Draco took a deep breath and continued on, eyes fixed firmly on the stone floor. “It wasn’t a dream. I was hallucinating on that—those damn—er, sticks.”

Boot shook his head. “It doesn’t cause hallucinations. You fell asleep. You were dreaming.” He raised an eyebrow. “Of Potter, it seems.”

Why was Boot being so blasé about this? Didn’t he realize . . .?

Then Draco remembered. No. He didn’t realize. Boot hadn’t been at Slughorn’s party. The news about Potter hadn’t traveled to the rest of the school.

Well, now Draco had to tell him. He couldn’t reveal that it was his fault, of course, but now that Potter’s name had been mentioned, Boot would eventually connect that Draco had been there and seen the poisoning. It would look highly suspicious if he kept quiet. He had to say something.

Draco licked his lips and swallowed. “Potter was—” he faltered. Saying it out loud made it feel more permanent. He closed his eyes and tried again. “Poisoned.” He winced. “He was poisoned.”

Terry Boot frowned. “You’re serious? Or in your dream?”

“At Slughorn’s party. A few hours ago.” Draco wrapped his arms around himself and glanced up at Boot.

“Where is he now? What kind of poison? Is—Potter, is he okay?”

Draco hadn’t meant to open up this whole can of worms but . . . “Coma. In the Hospital Wing, I think.”

Boot’s jaw dropped open. “I can’t believe it. Shit. That’s bad, Draco. That’s really, really bad.”

Draco nodded slowly.

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

That Draco was a murderer? That the world was doomed? “What?”

Terry Boot started to make his way to the door, kicking a splinter of wood out of his path. “If You-Know-Who hears about this . . .” Boot faltered and gave Draco a funny look. 

Draco’s heart clenched. Boot wasn’t telling him something. Or, more on the mark, Draco was too blind to realize something. 

“If You-Know-Who knows that Potter is vulnerable . . . “ Boot cut himself off again, looking uncomfortable. He shook his head. 

Dread filled his entire being at the mention of His non-name. “What?”

Boot sighed. “Look, Draco. I’m not going to say anything more than that. Not . . .” Draco could hear the unspoken words. Not in front of a Malfoy. Not in front of a bloody Death Eater’s son. Yes, Draco could hear those words loud and clear. “It’s not safe.”

Draco pressed his lips together and crossed his arms. “I see.”

Terry Boot shrugged and nodded. “Good. I knew you weren’t completely thick.” He gestured to Draco. “Let’s go.”

Let’s go. That’s it?

Draco blinked, completely gobsmacked. What the hell? Boot had flat-out insinuated that Draco could not be trusted. And that was it? You might go tell the Dark Lord this information, come on, it’s time for bed?

“Potter will be fine,” Draco said. 

Terry Boot stopped and gave Draco a considering look.

“He will,” he insisted. “I told you, I spoke with him.” And just like that, Draco suddenly felt very, very stupid. It had seemed urgent to tell Boot about his dream when he first woke up, but now that he was more alert and considerably less high, he felt like a fool. 

“In your dream.”

Draco winced. “Just forget it. Let’s go.” Draco walked past Boot to the door and tried to open it, but it was still locked. Terry Boot cast an Unlocking Charm on the door and the two stepped out of the room.

When they reached the dimly lit corridor, Draco squinted to adjust his vision to the lack of light. He thought that he could find his way back this time without Boot or, God help him, Granger, leading the way. Draco was feeling slightly more like himself, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. He turned to leave in the direction from which he thought he had arrived.

“Malfoy,” Boot called, his voice echoing through the empty passage. Draco stopped and turned back to face him.

“What?”

“Listen. I meant no offense by what I said earlier. But. I’m not stupid, you know?”

“Right,” Draco said, wryly. He waited a moment for Boot to finish, but Boot was too busy giving Draco an intense stare. He frowned back at him. “Well then, if that’s all, I’ll just be—”

“I know you’re going through a lot of shite, Malfoy,” Boot said. “Crazy, er, dark, let’s say, shite. And then on top of everything with Potter and what I saw . . .”

Draco felt himself growing very tense. It was as if Boot knew. Knew everything. It was all right there in those beady little Ravenclaw eyes. Draco waited for him to continue, not trusting himself to say a word.

“I know you don’t trust me,” Boot said. “I mean, you can’t, can you? You can’t trust anyone. But, if—” he shrugged awkwardly, “If you want to talk to me in vague terms about things. . . I’m here. I’ll listen.” He paused. “Okay?”

Draco felt himself nodding. Dumbstruck, he gave Terry Boot a short wave and watched as the Ravenclaw turned in the opposite direction and walked away.

So Terry Boot suspected that Draco was a Death Eater who was in a romantic tryst with Harry Potter, did he? And he was going to be a non-judgmental listening ear who wouldn’t hesitate to hex his arse on a battlefield, now was he?

“Merlin,” Draco muttered, pressing his fingers to his temples. Everything was so beyond fucked up.

….  
….  
….

SON OF DEATH EATER SAVES BOY WHO LIVES  
December 23, 1996

Tracy Abbott

The evening was festive and spirits were high when The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, 16, found himself the victim of a deadly poison at the Holiday party of Hogwarts’ Professor, Horace Slughorn, 76, late last evening. On the scene reporter, Tracy Abbott of the Daily Prophet, got the exclusive story. 

Partygoers noted that nothing seemed amiss. Potter had been witnessed spending a considerable amount of time with Draco Malfoy, 16, the son of convicted Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, who is currently serving a sentence in Azkaban for his role in the events that occurred at the Department of Mysteries last May.

The poisoning occurred at approximately 11:30 p.m. An unopened bottle of what had been labeled Marjoram’s Candied Peppermint Mead had been opened by Horace Slughorn and offered as a toast to several partygoers, including the Daily Prophet’s own Tracy Abbott who had declined the drink.

Potter was the only person who sipped the mead and within seconds the effects of the poison were apparent. The symptoms appeared to be generalized (seizure, loss of consciousness) making it difficult to identify the poison and locate an antidote. It was clear to all present that Potter was in a critical state and in dire need of immediate help.

That help came in the form of Hogwarts student, Draco Malfoy. In a stroke of quick thinking and sheer luck, Malfoy, whom others have described as being quite adept at Potions, suggested a bezoar, a piece of a goat’s stomach, to counteract the effects of the poison. Bezoar’s have been used widely throughout history as a universal antidote to any sort of poison.

Ronald Weasley, 16, a friend of Potter and a fellow Hogwart’s student, obtained a bezoar and assisted Potter by administering the bezoar orally, an action that mediwizard experts agree saved Potter’s life. The bezoar was given at a critical moment, a moment when seconds could mean the difference between life and death for the hero of our Wizarding World.

Horace Slughorn, whom Aurors have not named as a suspect in the poisoning, was impressed with the move, calling it “quick thinking on the part of young Malfoy. Very quick thinking, indeed.”

What witnesses found most puzzling was the behavior of Draco Malfoy at the scene of the crime. A history of animosity between Potter and Malfoy seemed common knowledge to nearly every witness and yet, after suggesting the bezoar, Malfoy’s behavior was described as “mad,” “inconsolable,” and “raving.” One student, who wished to remain anonymous, was certain that she had seen tears.  
The question, then, must be raised: Were Malfoy’s actions those of a hero or could they indicate something else?

“He’s a hero in my book,” Astoria Greengrass, 14, told the Daily Prophet. “Without that bezoar, [Potter] would have died for sure. So, yeah. Obviously, Malfoy and Weasley saved the day.”

Others weren’t convinced. “Interesting how he knew just what to do,” an anonymous source stated. “Interesting. That’s all I’m saying.”

“The use of a bezoar says only one thing--Malfoy listens in class. Anyone could have thought of it, but no one else did. It doesn’t make him a hero, it makes him [expletive] brilliant,” said Hogwarts student, Pansy Parkinson, 16.

“Hey, Ron!”

Draco tore his eyes away from the Daily Prophet and glanced at the Gryffindor table. Weasley was slumped, glumly, over his bowl of oatmeal. He scowled at the approaching group of younger Hufflepuffs.

“What’s the forecast today?” asked one with curly hair. Draco thought his name was Kevin Whitby.

Weasley’s jaw tensed and he said something in a low voice. 

“What?” Kevin asked. He’d obviously never been warned of the famous Weasley temper. Draco could tell the tosser was about to lose his cool, so he sat up straighter to watch the impending show.

Predictably, Weasley jumped from his seat, a Daily Prophet clenched tightly in his hand. The spoon fell from his oatmeal bowl and hit the table with a clatter. “Don’t you read?” he yelled angrily and thrust the crumpled paper against Kevin’s chest.

A weary-looking Granger tried to intercede. “Ron!”

The Hufflepuffs exchanged uneasy glances, then gently unfolded the crumpled paper, holding it between themselves so they could read. An instant look of understanding, and then horror, crossed their faces.

“Shite,” said a little one with blonde hair.

Another looked around the Great Hall to see if the news had been obvious. It had. A murmur of panic was steadily rising amongst the students and staff. Wary and suspicious glances had been cast at Draco since he’d entered the Great Hall with Pansy. 

These three goons were just completely oblivious.

The blonde one raised his eyebrows and then shrugged. “Ah, well. Bad luck about your mate, Ron.” He glanced at his companions who were shaking their heads and reading the article. He looked back at Weasley. “Erm . . . how about that forecast?”

The other two Hufflepuffs grimaced at their friend’s bold idiocy and held him back as Weasley rounded on him. “There are more important things in the world, you know,” Weasley spat, “than some stupid weather forecast! You . . . you . . .”

“Ron!” Granger cried, grasping Weasley’s arm. “Calm down!”

Weasley shrugged her off and held up his wand with a determined look on his face. Draco had a flashback to Weasley threatening him on the Quidditch pitch in second year with his snapped wand. The curse had rebound, leaving Weasley the victim of his own wand and the red-head had fallen to Quidditch pitch, vomiting slugs. Draco, too, had fallen to the Quidditch pitch in a bout of hysterics. 

Funny emotions were currently warring inside Draco. It had all been so long ago. It had seemed like such a big deal at the time. If only things were still that way. . . Draco began to picture Weasley belching up slugs all over the Hufflepuffs and into his oatmeal bowl and cracked a smile at the ridiculous thought. Oh, how he wished that would happen. 

Nervous laughter bubbled out of Draco from a place of deep discomfort, overpowering his panicked nausea. Snorting, he glanced at his breakfast and imagined slugs in his own oatmeal. He laughed again and looked up. All around the Great Hall, curious eyes were fixed on him. He figured they all wanted to catch a glimpse of Hogwart’s new supposed hero, the Great Draco Malfoy. What they were getting instead was loony madman, chuckling to himself over a bowl of oatmeal.

This was a problem. A chuckling oatmeal-eater did not convey the look of a hero. Nor was it the look—okay, yes, maybe it was the look of a demented villain. Draco pressed his lips together to keep from snickering and stared fixedly down at his gray, lumpy breakfast.

He wondered how Potter was eating in the Hospital Wing. How did one eat in a coma, anyway? Were magical fluids spelled into the body? Did the fluids have a taste?

Draco imagined sugar being spelled into one’s body and wondered if it could be tasted somewhere on the back of the tongue, or maybe deeper.

Did one feel satisfied after a spelled liquid meal? Would Potter’s hunger subside?

No, probably not. Potter was probably hungry. The last thing he’d eaten had been that raspberry tart.

Tart. He’d called Potter a tart, hadn’t he? Last night he’d called Potter a bloody tart. Oh, Lord. Laughter erupted from him, again, at both the ridiculous barb and the memory of Potter’s flustered face—stupid git that he was.

Pansy gave him an odd look from across the table and his stomach twisted, sharply.

It had been funny at the time--hilarious, even--but it couldn’t be funny now. Potter was in a coma. He was in a bloody coma and Draco was not permitted to laugh at any inside jokes he had with Potter because Potter could still die and it was Draco’s fault.

He plunged a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth and held it there, pressing the goo against the roof of his mouth. 

Inside jokes?

Draco had inside jokes with Potter? How was that even possible? 

The tart joke, the flirting. Those were inside jokes. And they had other ones, too, didn’t they? They’d laughed about Bushy the Broomstick and that Abbott lady. Mostly, though, they had secrets. They’d hidden the kiss--had never even talked about.

Potter had tried to, but Draco had shrugged him off. It was fear, of course. It was always fear. But fear of what? What would have been worse--Potter wanting more from Draco or Potter rejecting him? 

More than likely, Potter was going to tell Draco that it couldn’t happen again. He would have been right, of course, and Draco would have wholeheartedly agreed. Of course Potter wouldn’t want it to happen again. Draco had run away like a girl afterwards and kneed the bugger. In the weeks that followed, Draco had attempted murder on Potter’s mentor twice, cursed one of Potter’s teammates into a coma and forced Potter into one, himself. Draco was completely unworthy of Potter’s affection, despite Terry Boot thinking there could be something more.

Yes. No doubt Potter would have rejected him. Draco knew this, deep down. He just didn’t need to hear it.

They had too many secrets, anyway. It could never work. Pansy always said that relationships were built on honesty, trust and a good sense of humour. Love never factored into the equation for her since the Parkinson’s had come from a long line of arranged marriages. “Marry for money, the love will grow,” Pansy’s mother had once said, giving Draco a knowing wink. 

There was very little honesty between Draco and Potter, for obvious reasons. Trust? Well, the trust went one way. Draco knew, knew, that he could trust Potter--for now, at least--until he managed to do something too reprehensible for even Potter’s forgiveness. Potter, however, could not trust Draco, though Draco suspected that the idiot probably did. It would certainly explain why the moron kept hanging around him and why he was now in the Hospital Wing. Humour? Draco wrinkled his forehead, thoughtfully. It was interesting. Potter was surprisingly funny. Not laugh-out-loud funny, but sarcastic, wry and self-deprecating, which was great because Draco was so very insulting. They hadn’t had enough time together to learn each other’s senses of humour, but after spending time talking to Potter last night, Draco was mildly intrigued. The two of them could probably go at it for endless hours, tearing Potter’s dignity to shreds and laughing up a storm.

“Hmm, well,” he murmured thickly over the spoon in his mouth, “not anymore.” Draco pulled the spoon from his mouth and swallowed, fixing his face into a mask of neutrality. Then he washed his remaining emotions away with a bitter sip of tea and glanced back at Weasley.

Weasley was still fuming at the Hufflepuffs.

“We just wanted to make sure the train would arrive to Kings Cross on time!” cried Kevin Whitby, having given up on placating Weasley in favor of defending his idiotic mate.

“Yeah, Ron,” said a curly-haired Scottish boy whose last name was Cauldwell. “I’d owled me mam to come to the train station at three o’clock. She’s got little ones to look after y’know.”

The mention of family seemed to hit home for the bedraggled pauper and his freckled face turned an uneasy blend of blotchy red and green. With a resigned sigh, Weasley covered his mouth with his hand and whispered the charm that the morons at Hogwarts hadn’t bothered to look up themselves (it was Tempus Futurus!) and presented the hologram of clear, cool skies the three Hufflepuffs.

The boys nodded appreciatively and one dropped a five galleon note onto the Gryffindor table. Weasley knocked it onto the floor in a self-righteous huff and didn’t notice when Granger picked it up and gently tucked the note into his faded robe pocket. 

Draco turned back to his oatmeal and stabbed at it with his spoon. Well, wasn’t that just great? Clear skies and safe travels for the students of Hogwarts. How nice it was that everyone else would go home for the holidays. How lovely it was that every other Hogwarts student could enjoy one last holiday of blissful ignorance before their parents had to pick up the battle they’d abandoned over a decade ago and face the reality that the Dark Lord had returned and was more powerful than ever. How lovely. So nice for all of them. Until their parents were dragged back into war like Draco’s had been.

But it wouldn’t be just the parents this time, would it? Already the Dark Lord was recruiting youth for his ranks, seeing as some of his greatest supporters were busy rotting in Azkaban. Draco had his suspicions about Blaise and Theo and he already knew that Pansy’s brother had received the Dark Mark last summer. Louis Parkinson had only just turned seventeen. 

Would Dumbledore’s side—Potter’s side—ask the children to fight, too? Surely the Golden Trio would weasel their way into battle, despite being teenagers, themselves. Dumbledore had always seemed to allow Potter— push him, even—into situations that were far beyond the capabilities of an ignorant orphan.

And Potter, foolish Gryffindor that he was, had run wand first into all of them.

It was incredible, really, that Potter—some speccy sod who first saw a wand at the age of eleven—was able to battle the most powerful wizard in the world and come out on top. 

Potter wasn’t even that smart.

And for a bloke like Draco who had chosen to fight against Potter, well, it was admittedly nerve-wracking.

“Draco,” Goyle said, poking him in the arm with his fat finger. “Um, I need to talk with you.”

Draco gave Goyle a weak look. “What?”

Goyle frowned. “Not here, stupid.” Draco scowled at the insult and Goyle raised his hands in apology. “Sorry. Just-later, in private. On the train, yeah?”

Feeling sorry for himself, Draco dropped his head into his hands. “Not going home this year,” he mumbled.

“You’re . . . what?” Goyle asked. “Why didn’t you say so?”

Draco shrugged. “I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

Goyle gave a solemn nod. “Okay. Well. It’s important, anyway. In the dorms or something? Are you packed?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not going home, you lug.”

“Oh, right.” Goyle then gave relieved-looking smile. “Well, that’s a good thing, Draco, because—”

“How is that a good thing?” he asked, sharply.

Goyle shook his head with a small smile. “It just is. We’ll talk later. In the dorms before I leave—I haven’t packed yet.”

Typical. Goyle always waited until the last minute and usually ended up forgetting to pack his pants or his toothbrush. 

“You’re leaving in two hours, Goyle! How have you not packed?”

Goyle shrugged. “Couldn’t decide which bag to pack. Didn’t want to carry my whole trunk, but I wanted something with room for presents.”

“Extension Charm, nitwit,” Draco mumbled.

“I got a D on my Charms OWL, nitwit.”

Draco snorted and blinked heavily. The lingering effects of the previous days’ foray into drugs and grievous weeping had left him somewhat lethargic. Strangely numb. Emotionless. But remarkably clear-headed. It was not unlike how Draco used to feel.

Maybe this mistake with Potter was all for the best. Perhaps this . . . trust? Fondness? Whatever it was that Draco had grown to feel for Potter was actually a tool that could help Draco to complete his original goal.

Draco just had to control his own emotions. He couldn’t let this. . . thing . . . with Potter mean anything to him. Best of all, he could use Potter’s trust to his advantage. If Potter trusted Draco and felt fondness for him and Draco used that to help his family, then perhaps things were not so hopeless after all. Maybe he could actually go through with his task.

Draco’s frame of mind since receiving his task had been of constant paranoia and anxiety. He had thought that his paranoia was due to that niggling voice in his head—Goyle liked to call it instinct . . . Pansy like to call it women’s intuition—that kept telling him that what he was planning to do was wrong. But as he stared at his gooey gray breakfast and dropped an unappetizing blob of grains back into the bowl, he realized that that couldn’t be it. Since when had Draco Malfoy been concerned about right and wrong, anyway? What he had been feeling wasn’t the cry of a guilty conscience. Malfoy’s didn’t have guilty consciences. Malfoys acted and made decisions based on what was best for themselves and best for the family. They made decisions based on survival. Malfoys took care of Malfoys and this task was Draco’s best chance to ensure that his family remain safe and alive.

Draco frowned deeply and took a bite of the oatmeal, savoring the sugary taste.

This madness he’d been suffering, his “Anxiety Disorder,” had been fear all along—fear of failure. Draco was simply ambitious—it was why he was a Slytherin. He was a perfectionist with a nearly impossible task: kill the world’s most powerful wizard.

He let out an irritated snort of laughter.

Of course he’d felt bloody anxiety. Of course he was scared! A sixteen year old given that bloody task? It was ridiculous.

The Dark Lord had set Draco up for failure. Any idiot could see that. But perhaps the Dark Lord had underestimated Draco. After all, Draco had just poisoned Potter. 

He smirked in disbelief, feeling an indescribable combination of pride and . . no—it couldn’t be guilt. It just wasn’t.

Pride and relief—that was it. Draco had just incapacitated his Lord’s enemy and the now whole Wizarding World, thanks to the Daily Prophet, thought Draco Malfoy was a hero. At first Draco had been horrified about what he had done, but now Draco could see how wonderful things truly were. Draco’s mistake may have sealed his future for the best. He had unwittingly done a good thing. And it was a good thing, mostly. This was the right thing—for himself, for his family. Draco didn’t need to feel fear anymore. 

Plus, Potter trusted him now. Potter was convinced that Draco did not want to be a Death Eater and, really, with Potter thinking Draco was on his side, Draco had just given himself and his family an incredible amount of protection. It wasn’t really betrayal because this was what was best for Draco. Potter would want what was best for Draco. Potter’s problem was that he thought he knew what was best for Draco, but he had been wrong. 

Draco couldn’t join Potter. He couldn’t switch sides. It wasn’t realistic. In fact, it was dangerous. Things weren’t perfect, but this—this was the best chance Draco had for himself and for his family, as long as Potter lived. And Potter would live. He would.

There was hope. It had been difficult to see before—but, Merlin! It was so obvious. Having Potter think Draco was on his side . . . it was genius. It was cunning. Draco could pretend he had planned it all along.

Why hadn’t he planned it all along?

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that Draco had somehow slipped up and let Potter . . . in. What mattered was that Potter was in and Draco didn’t need to run away and abandon his family. Plus, with Potter momentarily out of the way, Draco could do what he needed to do. Complete his task. Kill Dumbledore. It would be a clean kill. No poison. No curses. No mistakes.

His stomach churned uneasily and he pushed his oatmeal away.

In order to execute a clean kill, Draco would need backup. Once he had support, he would corner the old man and shoot a simple Avada Kedavra, effectively ending his life and saving his family. It would be a clear, easy shot.

But when he thought about what he’d said to Pansy, about not wanting to be a murderer . . . that was true, of course it was true, but mostly it had been fear. Right? It must have been. No one wanted to be a murderer, after all.

Plus, Draco had been upset. Obviously. Anyone would have been shaken up after nearly killing someone—especially the wrong someone. Draco hadn’t wanted Potter to die.

Just Dumbledore. 

Well, no, that wasn’t true, either. Draco didn’t want anyone to die, dammit, but it was something he just had to do. And, really, the man was so old that Draco would just be putting him out of his misery. Better that Draco kill him—a clean, painless shot—than the Dark Lord get his hands on Dumbledore, anyway.

Ugh.

It was decided, then. Draco had to stay on the Dark Lord’s good side . . . not that the monster had what could be called a good side . . .

Merciful side. Yes. Draco had to stay on the Dark Lord’s merciful side. Turning tail and running would put Draco at risk for a fate worse than death . . . his parents, too. 

It was better this way. It was right this way. This was the way things were supposed to be.  
Besides, when the Dark Lord did come into power with the Malfoys at his side, it wouldn’t be so bad, would it? It wouldn’t be a reign of terror. The Dark Lord was smarter than that. He would reward his most loyal followers. The war and the fighting and the deaths would stop. 

Once all of the undesirables and dissenters were disposed of, everyone else could live in peace. It was hard to think about, even for Draco who was raised with conservative Pureblood ideals, but it would be over. The killing would stop and the survivors would be left in peace to just . . wizard around and be wizards all day. 

He sighed, heavily.

“Excuse me.”

A curly blonde boy in Gryffindor robes stepped into Draco’s field of vision. He was holding an enormous muggle camera in front of his squirrely face.

Draco twisted his mouth oddly as Colin Creevey snapped a bright, bold shot of him clutching his oatmeal spoon in a death vice. A white square popped out of the camera and Creevey snatched it with a grin.

There’d be no more weirdos like Creevey snapping muggle photos, Draco thought, as the boy shook the square with vigor. No more know-it-alls like Granger spewing harmonious ideals and outscoring Draco on all his exams, no more Muggle Studies classes or Muggles or tellies or flip books or Dickens books or pencil sharpeners and crisps and all that was strange and foreign to Draco. Things would be better without all of that . . . and the fighting and killing would stop. Right. Of course. It had to. It—

“All right, Malfoy?” Colin Creevey asked with a bright, cheesy grin. Creevey had too many teeth packed into his little, gummy mouth, Draco thought. And they were all sort of . . . round-shaped.  
Draco glared as Creevey moved in closer. Who did that little Gryffindor Mudblood think he was, anyway? Just because he’d snapped a decent shot of Draco snogging the reporter, it didn’t mean Draco would lower himself to speak to the little snot.

“Here!” Creevey chirped, shoving a thick, brown envelope at Draco. Suspicious, Draco used the back of his spoon to drag the envelope toward him. “I thought you’d want the doubles, now that I know you saved Harry Potter and all.”

“Fine. Go away.”

Creevey shrugged. “Sure thing, Malfoy!” He turned to walk away, then quickly whipped back around. “Hey! Hey Malfoy, everyone says you’re a hero now, you know?”

Draco closed his eyes, wishing the blonde creep would bugger off.

“Did you know that, Malfoy?”

“Okay. Great.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “You can go now, little Muggle boy.”

Undeterred, Creevey slipped into an empty spot across from Draco at the Slytherin table. Draco’s eyes darted quickly to the side. A quiet hush befell the Great Hall as students gaped at the bold little idiot who had dared to sit across from Draco Malfoy.

“I said bugger off,” Draco hissed. He sensed the familiar presence of Crabbe and Goyle behind him and sat up a bit straighter.

Creep-o reached forward and set something in front of Draco. Then he dug into his pocket and produced a white tube with a black pointed tip. A pen. Draco blinked, remembering the word from his fifth year vocabulary exam in Muggle Studies. 

“Can I get your autograph, Malfoy?”

Millicent spit her tea into her oatmeal. Blaise and Theo were sniggering loudly.

Draco glared at the item Creevey had set before him. It was a photograph—a weird, still, black and white photograph. It reminded Draco of the flip-book pictures except that this was not a painting, but a real image. 

He leaned away from the photo, feeling uneasy in its vicinity. He didn’t want to look at it. He didn’t want to remember it at all. From a distance he could make out his own white-blonde hair, nearly the color of the picture’s margin, and his washed out skin, the brightest spot in the picture. The rest was too dark for Draco to properly see. 

In a low, slow voice Draco spoke to Creevey. “Get this out of here.”

Creevey nodded solemnly. “Oh, of course, Malfoy. You must be so distraught, considering. I understand. Really, I do. But, you’ve got to understand, a picture like this, Malfoy! With your autograph! After last night the whole Wizarding World is clamoring for photos of its new hero—especially signed ones! I mean, sure, I could get Ron’s signature and all. I mean, after all, he did help save Harry, too, but you! Draco Malfoy-the surprise hero! After years of animosity—the Wizarding World wants to know the real Draco Malfoy and—”

Somewhere around the phrase “new hero” Draco’s vision blacked out, then fizzled into white, hot rage. He could see the irritating Mudblood, grinning and yapping and making animated gestures with his white pen. His words melted around Draco, sounding distorted, as if coming through water.

The next thing he knew, Draco was on his feet and grasping the collar of Creevey’s robe, balling the fabric tightly in his clenched fists.

Everyone was watching and Draco was glad. He’d give them a show. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he hissed, noting with satisfaction how the rosy color drained from the boy’s cheeks. Draco tugged Creevey closer. His small frame jerked over the Slytherin table and his scrabbling hands knocked Draco’s tea to the floor with a splash and a clatter.

“S-sorry,” Creevey choked, “I just—”

“Forget your place, Mudblood?” Draco gave him a rough shake and the boy’s head jerked to the side with an awkward snap.

Creevey was now speaking to the left side of the ceiling. “I just wanted—”

Draco spoke in a dangerous whisper. “That was your first mistake,” he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. “Whatever you think you saw last night, I recommend you put it out of your head. I am not a friend of Gryffindors. I despise irritating little Mudbloods like yourself and I would never, ever, do anything that would benefit you, you nauseating little leech.” Draco shoved Creevey and he staggered backward, crashing into the Ravenclaw table. 

Anthony Goldstein yanked Creevey to his feet by the arm. Creevey rubbed his neck and straightened the camera that was hanging haphazardly around it. Terry Boot stood beside Goldstein, shaking his head at Draco and looking disappointed.

Draco met Terry’s gaze and calmly brushed off his robes.

As far as Draco was concerned, Terry could wipe that self-righteous look right off his dumb face. As if Terry Boot had any right to be disappointed in Draco. Please.

If you want to start changing things in your life, Draco, you need to start small.

Draco huffed. He didn’t need to make a change anymore. Change was for cowards. Change was what Draco thought he had wanted in a moment of weakness. But now that he could see the situation for what it was, Draco no longer needed Boot to preach about change.

“Malfoy—” Boot began. Draco cut him off.

“What, Boot?” Draco smirked, fighting down the dangerous emotions that threatened to surface. “Going to defend the Mudblood?”

Boot rolled his eyes and looked disgusted. “Grow up, Malfoy.”

“Stay out of it, Boot,” Draco growled. Crabbe and Goyle took a threatening step toward Terry Boot.

Who the hell did Terry Boot think he was? It was one thing if he tried to derail Draco’s entire foundation of life in private, but it was quite another to try to embarrass him in front of the whole school.

“You know,” Boot stepped bravely forward, his eyes wide and calm. He stood between Crabbe and Goyle who cracked their knuckles, ominously, and Draco was grateful for the protective barrier of both the Slytherins and the table. “I don’t think I will.”

“Is that so, Boot?” Draco’s tone was conversational, but his eyes were narrowed. “I always thought you lot were intelligent, but I have to say, I think you’re making a very poor choice right now.”

Boot returned Draco’s smirk and nodded. “Yeah, well, someone once told me that every choice has a consequence,” he said, a smug eyebrow raised, “and that we should make our choices based on the consequences we can live with.”

Draco was about to laugh and demand the name of the idiot when he recognized the words as his own, thrown back into his face by Boot—Boot whom he had foolishly trusted the previous night in a moment of weakness. Draco opened his mouth to retort, but finding himself uncomfortably speechless, he snapped it shut and gave Boot a dirty look.

Terry Boot gazed back, thoughtfully. He bit his lower lip, keeping his eyes glued on Draco. After a moment he shook his head, looking resigned. Draco sensed that Boot wanted to say more, and was grateful that he didn’t. Whatever Boot had to say now would likely just embarrass Draco and piss him off more. Draco had already lost enough control of the situation, so he decided to do something unexpected. He raised his eyebrows. “I reckon Boot’s right,” he said.

A small gasp could be heard from the direction of the Hufflepuff table. Draco avoided the urge to roll his eyes. “Next time I tell you to do something, Mudblood,” he spat at Creevey, who flinched at the slur, “you’ll do it. If you bother me again or even dare think yourself worthy of looking at me or the Slytherin table,” Draco paused, dramatically, “the consequences will prove to be ones you won’t live with, if you catch my meaning.”

Creevey gulped. 

“Do I make myself clear, camera boy?” Draco asked.

Colin Creevey said nothing. Instead, the little squirrel straightened his posture to a ridiculous degree and tipped his nose into the air. He took a brave step forward, snatched his pen off the Slytherin table with a girlishly emphatic “hmph!” and turned from Draco with a flourish only to crash into an angry Crabbe.

Creevey tried to step neatly around Crabbe but Crabbe sensed the dodge and blocked it. “I believe Malfoy asked you a question,” he grunted.

Creevey lifted his head even higher and Draco briefly wondered if he had dislocated something in the boy’s neck. “Fine,” Creevey said to the ceiling. Or to Crabbe.

“Fine what?” Goyle demanded, closing in on Creevey’s other side, effectively blocking his path.   
A feeling of warmth went through Draco as he watched his friends defend him and he found himself moved by Crabbe and Goyle’s loyalty. His oldest friends were so devoted that they would stand by his side even when they knew he was wrong and acting like a total arse. Goyle might not say it. But Crabbe? Crabbe came from a family of sisters who liked to have “talks.” Draco shook his head with fond grin. He was definitely going to hear it from Crabbe. 

Creevey was struggling with his Gryffindor pride, but sensibility won out. “Fine. I will.” he said. “May I go, please?”

Goyle and Crabbe exchanged an amused look. Goyle placed a gentle, yet threatening hand on Creevey’s shoulder. “You’ll do what, exactly?”

Creevey sniffed with the air of a martyr, his head turned piously to the snowy ceiling of the Great Hall. “I don’t have to say it.”

Crabbe narrowed his eyes. “You will say it, or else—”

“Oh for heaven’s sakes!” A flash of freckles and red hair popped through the crack between Draco’s minions. The Weaselette yanked Creevey away from Crabbe and Goyle and quickly shuffled the boy toward the doors of the Great Hall.

Crabbe stared at the empty spot before him, dumbfounded.

“Hey!” Goyle protested. Draco crossed his arms and watched the scene unfold. As far as he was concerned, Boot had given him the opening to sink the last goal and win the game. The rest was just fall-out and pitch-talk.

Little Germy Weasley paused, placing a freckled hand on her thick hip. “Creevey’s a fame whore who loves exploiting others for personal gain,” she said.

Creevey sputtered indignantly and tried to twist out of Germy’s freckled grasp. “Hey!”

Draco widened his eyes in shock and burst out laughing. So, the girl weasel was insulting one of her own? And was agreeing with Draco? This was interesting . . .

“Well, it’s true!” the Weaselette hissed, glaring at Creevey. “You should be embarrassed, Colin. Harry’s lying half-dead in the Hospital Wing and you’re flitting around the Great Hall, trying to get autographs?” Her scolding whisper had risen to a near shriek and Draco swore he saw steam come of her ears.

Creevey hung his head in a parody of shame. Draco didn’t buy it for one second. Apparently, neither did the Weasley girl.

Crabbe had adjusted to the change and was now pointing his wand at Creevey with an amused smirk. “Now say it, Gryffindor.”

“Or else,” Goyle added.

Draco sensed Boot’s eyes on him. “Well, Boot,” Draco murmured, softly, “it appears as though some can make change that’s larger than a flipbook. Just look at Weasley.” He cast the Ravenclaw a sideways glance to make sure he had heard his poor excuse for a peace offering. Boot rolled his eyes, but Draco thought he looked amused.

“I won’t say it!” Colin repeated.

Draco could see a curse forming on Crabbe’s mouth when Germy shoved Creevey toward the door with disgust. He stumbled into the hallway and moved quickly out of sight. Germy then turned back and placed both hands on her hips.

Goyle, unsure of what to do, trained his wand on the Weasley girl. Draco looked into her narrowed brown eyes and was assaulted with the painful memory of a Bad Bogey Hex. Goyle was about to get it and Draco winced in empathy.

“You put that wand down!” Germy scolded Goyle, prodding the air with her finger. In that moment, Draco thought, the Weaselette bore a horrifying resemblance to her fat, bossy mother.

Goyle, who also had a fat, bossy mother, gulped and lowered his wand.

Germy nodded with a huff. “Thank you,” she said. “Now. Even though the three of you are acting like childish arseholes—surprise, surprise—” Draco heard a titter from behind and scowled. “—I will apologize on behalf of Colin and the Gryffindors.”

Draco returned her apology with a cold and dignified smile. “For what might you be apologizing?” 

The usual entourage of Gryffindorks had crowded around her with tensely held wands. Germy clicked her tongue and sighed. “Well, Malfoy. It was obvious that Colin upset you with those pictures and—”

Draco scoffed, loudly, so be sure that everyone heard his protests. “Woah-what? Wait a minute! Upset! Me? You’re completely delus—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, in a low voice, taking a step forward, “interrupt me.”

A chorus of “ooh’s” came from the Hufflepuff table. This time Draco turned and shot them a scathing look. He noticed that Germy had done the same.

“As I was saying,” she continued with a flip of her long, red hair, “Colin was being a complete arse. First of all, he was stupid enough to ask you,” she laughed, as if the idea were absurd “for an autograph. As if that would ever be worth something.” Draco frowned. “And he was stupider still to think you’d actually comply with his request. You are, after all, the great Draco Malfoy and he is but a lowly Gryffindor.”

Draco was tempted to say that Colin was not so stupid for wanting his autograph—that plenty of witches and wizards wanted the autograph of a Malfoy—but settled instead on a lame, “Muggle-born. You forgot to say.”

She looked at him.

“He is a but lowly, Muggle-born Gryffindor,” Draco explained. “Or Mudblood.”

Germy continued to look at him for another minute. Draco eagerly awaited her explosive, self-righteous response, but it never came. Instead she said, “Precisely. That’s just what I’m saying.”

He was baffled. What was this girl doing? Wasn’t she Potter’s little pet? Daughter of blood-traitors and friend of Muggle-borns? “Will wonders never cease?” Draco asked, gesturing whimsically.

Germy ignored him. “Like I was saying, Colin had no business at the Slytherin table and —”

“Ginny!” Granger cut her off, sounding shocked. She placed a hand on the Weasel girl’s shoulder and tried to pull her back. “How can you say that?”

Germ—Ginny— shrugged Granger off and walked right up to Draco until she was directly in front of him. “I want you to listen very carefully to me,” she said.

“Go on, Weasel.” Draco drawled in a bored voice.

Ginny smirked and moved uncomfortably closer to him. “I don’t care,” she began in a soft voice, belying the feral look in her wild brown eyes, “if you chat with Harry until you’re blue in the face, Malfoy.” Draco fought the urge to step back from her. “I don’t care if Harry thinks it’s his job to save scum like you from your own idiocy by giving you attention that you don’t deserve.” She took another step forward until she was standing a hair’s-breadth away from Draco, eyes blazing like a mad harpy. “I don’t even care,” she hissed, “if you put on a public show and cry and kick and act like Harry’s life actually means something to you,” her eyes were bright and her voice began to waver, “or if you do a bloody dance around his poisoned body.”

Unsure of where she was going with her bizarre apology, Draco flicked his gaze toward Terry Boot for help, but Boot was watching Ginny. When Draco looked back at her, she was standing so close that he could feel the heat radiating off of her body.

“I don’t care if the whole bloody school showers you with praise or calls you a hero or buys into that bullshit performance you put on for the press.” Ginny was whispering now and Draco was certain that only he and Boot were close enough to hear it. “You stay the hell away from Harry.” Draco could feel her hot breath against his cheek, tickling his ear as he looked down at her with a cold gaze. “You’re fickle,” she stabbed an accusing finger into his chest and he grit his teeth, “you’re completely fucked up. You don’t know what the hell it is that you want. You don’t know what you are. You’re nothing but a scared little boy playing with fire—”

“Fuck you,” Draco growled, but Ginny continued.

“And I’ll be damned if I let someone I love get burned to death,” Ginny pulled back slightly and her eyes were filled with challenge, “because of you,” she spat. 

Draco was nearly shaking with rage. How dare she speak to him like that? “Listen to me, little girl,” he whispered back. “I’ll do whatever I damn well please.”

Ginny laughed at that and shook her head. “I’m not stupid, you know,” she said.

Draco returned her laugh with a smirk. “Hmm, could have fooled me—”

“Oh, just shut up! If you’re any kind of Slytherin—if you are the selfish prat that I know you are—then—If—” she faltered and groaned in exasperation, her brown eyes incredulous and wild. “Just—Merlin! Just stop being a bloody idiot, Malfoy!

Draco gave her a funny look. He’d always thought Ginny Weasley to be a bit odd, and not very girl-like, but he had to admit that he wasn’t following her impassioned speech at all. “Give it a rest, Weasley. You’ll give yourself a nosebleed.”

She threw her head back in a whiny laugh. Draco exchanged a startled glance with Goyle, who shrugged. “Bloody hell!” she chuckled, sounding undeniably mad. “You don’t get it, do you?” Ginny threw her arms out helplessly. “You have no bloody idea what I’m trying to say!”

Draco was done with this nonsense and they were starting to draw attention from the staff. “Right,” he said slowly with a wide-eyed nod. “Thanks ever so for the informative speech, Weasel. Prior to today I thought your family’s poverty was due to laziness and an overwhelming lack of wit, but now I know it’s the unfortunate result of inherited psychosis. Thanks for that.”

Draco joined Crabbe, Goyle and the nearby Slytherins in a round of laughter before he felt a vicious yank at his collar. He yelped as he was dragged away from the crowd of onlookers.

“Get your filthy—!”

“Shut up you imbecile—”

“Crabbe! Goyle!” Draco choked out. He couldn’t understand exactly what the Weasel had done, but she’d managed to maneuver his neck and shoulder in a way that had him incapacitated, save for the ability to stumble in the shadow of her red hair.

She turned back slightly and look over his head at the others. Draco gave a weak kick to her shin, which she shrugged off. “If you dare,” she called to the crowd, “hex me or try to stop me, you’ll end up putting your pal here in a great deal of pain.” To Draco’s dismay, the Weaselette demonstrated by applying slight pressure to his neck with two fingers.

Stabbing heat shot down Draco’s spine and through his body, numbing his legs with a paralyzing ache. He choked out an ugly whimper that echoed through the Great Hall. 

And then the black, swishing robes of Professor Snape materialized in front of them. Draco couldn’t decide if he felt relieved or pissed. He settled on pissed and glared at the floor. Certainly Snape would see that Draco was in pain and put an end to this.

“Is there a,” Snape looked slowly from Weasley to Draco, his face narrowed in suspicion, “problem here?” he asked.

Of course there was a problem here. Why wasn’t Snape making the barmy bitch release her death grip? Draco peered at Weasley with dismay when he realized that her death grip appeared to be nothing more than a chummy arm around his shoulder, save for the decidedly unfriendly look on both of their faces.

Ginny Weasley—a sneaky cow whom Draco had clearly underestimated—gave Snape an innocent smile. “No, Professor! There’s no problem at all. Malfoy and I were just discussing the pros and cons of inter-house unity.” She gave Draco a meaningful look. Draco sneered and opened his mouth when he felt that stabbing pain again from her two bloody fingers. “Isn’t that right, Malfoy?” she asked as the pain increased in intensity.

“Right,” he choked and felt the pain subside. “Completely theoretical discussion, of course,” he gasped.

“Really?” Snape drawled, his eyes bright with malevolence.

Draco bared his teeth at Snape in a parody of a grin. Snape held his baleful gaze for several moments. “I see,” he said finally and nodded. “Very well. I’m always in full support of theoretical discussions on inter-house unity.” He gave them a humble bow and a grand sweeping gesture for them to continue on their way. 

Snape was so full of shite.  
….  
….  
….

He’d been swimming for an eternity, but Harry was still stuck in his own damn mind. The never-ending viscous goo pressed into his skin and he could have sworn his fingers and toes were pruned, but whenever he checked them they appeared normal or, even more disconcerting, they weren’t there at all.

Harry could hear voices from the outside and he tried desperately to respond. The voices all sounded alike except for one voice that was higher-pitched and more varied than the others. He recognized it as Hermione’s voice and the sound made Harry feel even more homesick.

Her voice came through muffled and echoed, sometimes in repetition, but it was always her voice, her words.

“We’re so sorry, Harry,” Hermione said, sounding sincere. “We wish we could stay with you, we really do, but we’re leaving—Ron and I—in an hour for the Hogwarts Express for Christmas.”

A low, muffled sound rumbled in response. Harry had deduced that this was Ron.

“We had Madame Pomfrey put it on you, Harry,” Hermione said, referring to whatever the other person had said. “It’s green, like last year. We thought it might make you feel more at home.” A strange metallic sound began to grate through. “Oh, Harry!” The metal sounds grew louder. Hermione must have been crying. He wished he could tell her to stop crying—to tell her that he was alright—but he wasn’t entirely sure himself.

“I know that Ronald, but sometimes, even though they seem like they can’t hear you . . .”

Ron muttered something.

“Please, Harry. Just one sign.”

Harry tried to do something. He wiggled his dream fingers, he blinked his dream eyes, he let out a loud dream groan and waited to hear Hermione’s reaction.

“It’s okay, Harry. We’ll be back in a few days,” she said.

“Happy Christmas, mate.” That one was definitely Ron, Harry thought. So now, Harry could hear Hermione and a little bit of Ron. That was good thing. Hermione had said that Madame Pomfrey thought it would take a few days to a week to come out of the coma . . . if he was to come out at all.  
He hoped so, because he couldn’t imagine living the rest of his life stuck inside his own mind—a prisoner of his own self. It was bad enough living with his own depressing thoughts when he wasn’t comatose, but stuck in them forever without the distraction and company of his friends? 

That would be terrible. He would rather die.

Come to think of it . . . why hadn’t he died?  
….  
….  
….

“Thank you, Professor Snape,” Ginny chirped, dragging Draco forward and out of the Great Hall.  
Once they reached the corridor Draco asked, “Where exactly are you taking me, Weasley?”  
Her practical black boots were thumping along the hallway floor in a blur, their hard-tipped laces clacking softly along.

“Somewhere,” she snipped.

“Somewhere . . .?”

“Somewhere private.”

Draco whistled. “Woo hoo! Private, eh?” Ginny stuck him again with her fingers and this time, out of earshot of the Great Hall, Draco let out a loud, pained, holler. “Yow! Fuck, Weasley! Cut that out!”

“Somewhere private to talk, you utter prat.” She jerked him hard and he stumbled around a corner. “Say another word and it’ll be your last one.”

Draco shut his mouth and tripped along Ginny Weasley’s side. He began to feel dizzy, her death grip leaving him unable to look away from the whir of her feet. 

They reached her destination and she released Draco, shoving him into an open doorway. He fell onto his hands and knees in a heap of broken broomsticks then scrambled to his feet and rubbed his sore neck, trying to keep a distance from the deranged redhead.

She locked the door, cast a silencing spell and turned to Draco. “Malfoy,” she said.

Draco gave his kidnapper a wary look. “What?”

Her bravado seemed to have faded and she crossed her arms around herself, uncomfortably. “I—um. I need to tell you something.”

Draco gave her a slightly annoyed look. “Yes,” he said. “I gathered that.”

“It’s about Harry,” she said. She glanced at him quickly and looked away.

Draco sighed. Where had all her Gryffindor fire gone? Had she left it in the Great Hall with her Band of Merry Men? “Yes, Weasley,” Draco said in a tight voice, curiosity the only lure that was holding him there. “Again, I gathered that.”

“Well,” she said, with a shiver. She rubbed her hands together and blew on them. “Say, it’s bloody cold in here, isn’t it?”

Draco was no longer in fear of her wild temper, having quickly become victim to his own. “Fucking hell, Weasel! You think I’m interested in discussing the interior weather patterns of this bloody—” he looked around the dark room that was filled with broken junk, “where the hell are we, anyway?”

Weasel was glowering. “Shut up, Malfoy.” Animosity was obviously her element, since she had no trouble acting like a nasty bitch.

Draco waited for her to continue.

She rubbed her hands together and blew on them again.

Draco raised an eyebrow at her.

Weasley looked away. “You see,” she said softly.

“Mm hmm?” he prompted.

“The thing is . . . “ she bit her lip. “The thing is . . . ”

“Yes?” Draco’s voice was tight.

“Well,” she said with a frown. Weasel took a deep, starting breath. Draco nodded, encouraging her to get on with it. She met his eyes. She opened and then closed her mouth several times, then cringed slightly.

“Go on,” he said.

Weasel dropped her shoulders in defeat and let out her breath in one, long rush of air.

“Weasley!” he cried. “For fuck’s sakes, get to the point!”

“I’m trying!” she snapped.

Draco dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration and stepped away from the girl. “You’re killing me, right now, Weasel. You’re bloody killing me.”

“It’s not easy!”

“Like I care, Weasel!”

“Well you should!” she shouted back.

“Well, I don’t! Deal with it!” Draco was shouting, too, though he was not entirely sure why.

“Yes you do!” Weasley shrieked. “You do and it’s bloody weird and I don’t know why!”

“For Merlin’s sakes,” Draco squeaked, beyond exasperated. “I have no idea what you’re raving about, you psychotic bint!”

“Harry!” she yelled, stomping a foot like a child in a tantrum. “Harry, Harry, Harry!”

Draco’s eyes went wide. This girl was bloody insane. “What? What about him?”

“You care about him, alright?” Weasley was breathing heavily with one hand against the door supporting her weight. “You—and don’t deny it, either! You care about him, Malfoy.”

Cold prickles of ice shot through Draco’s veins followed by the searing heat of shame, guilt and paranoia. What did this Weasley bitch know? What did she think she knew? Could Potter have told her his suspicions about Draco?

Was she basing this all off of Draco’s reaction to the poisoning at Slughorn’s party? 

Or maybe . . . could Potter have told her something else? Something . . . something to make her use that word? Care.

Care?

Had he told her about the Chapel? Draco swallowed hard. 

No. No, Draco didn’t think he would. Potter would have been too embarrassed by the whole ordeal. Plus, wasn’t Ginny Weasley Potter’s little girlfriend, anyway? They’d gone to the Christmas party together. Draco had even seen the wench snog Potter with the flimsy excuse of mistletoe. Not that Draco had been watching . . . or had been bothered by that or anything.

But she thought that he--Draco Malfoy-- cared about Potter?

Draco didn’t care about anyone but himself. Wasn’t that Hogwarts’ general consensus? Draco was a self-absorbed Slytherin who cared only about himself. He certainly didn’t care about Potter, he just found his company interesting and didn’t want him to die.

But the Weaselette had started to say something in the Great Hall. Something that had come out sounding like a terrible version of a pep talk.

If you’re any kind of Slytherin—if you are the selfish prat that I know you are—then—

Then what? Stay away from Potter? Because she thought he cared about Potter? That didn’t make any bloody sense. Draco folded his arms. “Do you have a point to all this blathering, Weasel?”

“You—” The Weaselette pointed a weak finger at Draco. She’d obviously never learned that finger-pointing was poor manners, so Draco taught her by knocking the little freckled digit out of his face. “You didn’t deny it,” she finished, sounding irritated. She balled her hands into tight fists.

“Wait. Didn’t deny what?”

“That you care about him.” Her voice was rising in pitch. “You didn’t deny that you care about him, Malfoy!”

“Have you been listening to the Wizengamot Hour again, Weasley?” Draco snapped.

“You’re still not denying it.”

Draco scoffed. “So what? Despite your delusions of grandeur, I don’t answer to you.”

“Oh, you’re a fine one to be talking about delusions of grandeur, Malfoy.” She waited for his comeback. When it didn’t come she added, “So you don’t deny that you have feelings for Harry.”

“Feel—!” Draco choked at the ludicrous phrasing of her accusations. “Feelings for H—Potter! Are you mad?”

“Awfully strong reaction there, Malfoy.”

Draco could feel his thinning patience, ready to snap. “This is absurd,” he growled, shoving past her. “You know what you sound like, Weasley?” he asked, stopping. “You sound like a paranoid and delusional ex-lover. The only problem is . . . Potter never loved you, did he?”

Ginny’s eyes flashed and Draco detected enough truth in his statement to twist the knife further.

“That’s right,” Draco gave a soft laugh. “Poor little Weasley girl, pathetically in love with someone so far out of her league—”

“Stop it.”

“Vying for his attention, sending him love letters and making fan clubs—”

“Stop it. Don’t be an idiot. I was a kid.” Despite her vehemence, the little Weasel began to tremble and Draco was glad.

“But it was never enough, was it? The youngest of seven,” Draco murmured. He’d nailed it. Draco had found her weakness and was reveling in the power of its exploitation. Ginny Weasley obviously fancied Potter. Whatever place she wanted to pretend this ‘warning’ was coming from, she’d ruined her little act the second she used the word ‘care.’ She was jealous. That was what this was all about. “You never fit in at home, did you little Weasley? The last, forgotten child. The only girl. In fact, I recall hearing that the little Weasley girl wasn’t exactly planned. Isn’t that right? You were a . . . what was the word my mother used?” Draco tapped his chin, thoughtfully. “Oh, that’s right. A mistake.”

Weaselette’s arms were wrapped tightly around herself. “Mum said I—I was surprise.”

“Of course she did,” Draco said. “No one wants their child to know they were a mistake. Especially in a family like yours where your parents were already struggling to make ends meet for the children that they had wanted.”

Weasley shook her head. “It’s not true.” Her voice was weak, resigned. Draco was honestly surprised and just a little disappointed that the ginger wasn’t putting up more of a fight.

He clicked his tongue in sympathy. “Of course it’s true, Weasel. It’s not your fault, of course, but imagine how your family felt when they found out?” Draco shook his head. “What am I saying? Of course you know how they felt. You tried your best not to be a burden, I’m sure, but some things you just couldn’t help. You played sports with the boys, used their old books and broomsticks and broken toys so your parents would never feel obligated to buy you the dolls and girl toys that you really wanted.”

“I was a tomboy. It didn’t matter.” Ginny Weasley looked on the verge of tears and Draco briefly wondered if he was going too far. After all, she was only trying to protect Potter and that was an excusable crime.

But no. Ginny Weasley had implied that Draco was the danger from which Potter needed protection. On top of that, she was under some mad impression that Draco cared about Potter!  
How ridiculous!

Plus, that red hair. Her weasel ways. That Bat Bogey Hex. 

Draco had her right where he wanted her. “Well, you said you were a tomboy,” Draco chuckled, softly. “Even dressing like a boy and wearing your brothers’ clothes so your parents wouldn’t have to buy you all new ones.” This was just a guess but--

“They couldn’t afford them,” she whispered, confirming Draco’s remark. “And I didn’t need them.”

“No,” he agreed. “No, they couldn’t afford them. And perhaps you didn’t need them, but I’m sure that guilty feeling of wanting them was difficult to ignore.”

The Weaselette shook her head as a tear escaped her eye. “Please stop this.”

“And with the way you were dressed at that Christmas Party—a discount designer dress, hair, makeup, the borrowed jewelry,” Draco smiled, “you, Ginny Weasley, are no tomboy.”

“Shut up,” she pled. “Please, just stop this.”

“You looked radiant, walking in on Potter’s arm. Thinking you had a shot at him, that if he could see you in a dress, see you as something other than the bedraggled little hand-me-down mistake that you are, that he’d want you.”

“Fuck you,” she choked through gritted teeth. Her wand was trembling in her hand.

“So you threw yourself at him, because the dress, the hair, it wasn’t enough, was it?” Draco asked. “Ah yes, that’s right. I remember now. Potter tried to dodge you off the bat. Busy talking to me, if I remember correctly. And then you—? What was it you did again? Ah yes. Little Weasley tried to grope Harry Potter under the mistletoe, mistaking his pity invite as an actual date.”

“I invited him! As friends!”

“Oh, same difference,” Draco said. “And actually, your version’s worse. Imagine, snogging a friend who couldn’t be arsed to notice you. Potter has friends. They call it the Golden Trio for a reason--there’s no place for a fourth, despite your desperate attempts. It’s sad really--you’re a misfit in your family and you’re a misfit here. And then you were abandoned at a party that you had no business attending. You were all made up for your dream date and Potter was too busy getting smashed and talking to me to take any notice of you.” Draco placed a hand on Weasley’s trembling shoulder and she jerked away violently. “I can understand why you’d be jealous of me.”

Weasel’s wild eyes snapped up to Draco. With a furious grunt, she shoved him and he stumbled back against the door. “I am not!” she yelled, her wand now pointed at Draco whose own wand was clutched tightly in his grasp. “I am not jealous of you! My family loves me! Harry—he—he—”

Draco laughed. “Potter doesn’t love you!” he spat. “How could he?”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Weasley shrieked. “PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!”

The curse slammed into Draco before he had a chance to lift his wand. His limbs stiffened and his body keeled over onto the ground with a crack. 

Draco blinked up at Girl Weasley, her red hair a fiery halo around her furious face. He tried to scowl, but his mouth would not respond. The painful clenching of his teeth reminded him of the time he’d bitten too hard on a sticky, melted lemon drop and glued his molars together.

The wrath of Weasley, he thought, would soon be upon him and he knew he deserved it. Draco could dignify his actions by telling himself that Weasley had wronged him first, but it was a weak argument. Ginny Weasley was a little bit jealous. So what? In response, Draco had torn apart the girl’s entire life existence, told her she was an unwanted useless mistake who was unloved by both family and friends, and then backed up these ridiculous statements with facts. Draco had overreacted, as usual.

These were the types of overreactions that irritated his father into hiring a nurse trained in child psychology when Draco was seven. The nurse had suggested that his mother and father were too indulgent and that Draco needed a clear system of rewards and punishments. Then she made Draco cry by asking him why he kicked Tibby the House-elf when she was being nice to him. Draco hadn’t understood the question because he loved Tibby and wanted to be a good friend but, nice or not, his father always kicked the House-elves, so Draco thought he was supposed to kick them, too. Horrified, Narcissa promptly sacked the woman and bought Draco a kneazle for his distress.

Draco’s problem, his father had said, was that he was completely ruled by his emotions. Draco never had a plan--he was reactive and easily hurt. When he would try to emulate the cool manipulation of his father he’d always fail and end up angrier, embarrassed, in trouble or hurt.

Weasley glared down at him and Draco winced, preparing for the onslaught. First the bitch spit in his face. Then she kicked him in the side. She kicked him in the side a few more times before disappearing from view. He could hear muffled sniffling and a quiet curse before she returned with her recovered composure. Weasley stuck one worn, black boot on his chest and leaned down toward Draco whose face was now covered in her dripping spit. He fluttered his eyelids rapidly in an attempt to keep the vile, burning liquid from entering.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, conducting a quick cleaning charm on Draco’s face. He blinked twice to be sure and then relaxed, narrowing his eyes at her. “Listen here, Malfoy. This is all I wanted to say. It’s obvious to me that you care about Harry. It’s weird, I don’t get it, I don’t understand it. But you do.”

She ran a hand over her freckled face and sighed.

“And it’s also glaringly obvious that you can’t admit it or even understand it. You probably don’t even have the capability to recognize it, with your upbringing and all. I mean-look. Five minutes ago when you thought I was jealous of you, you completely lost your mind. I mean, honestly, the way you carried on just further proves that, in some bizarre way, you’re . . interested. Vested. I don’t know. You care. Or you wouldn’t have bothered with me the way you just did. Something I said threatened you and you lashed out.”

Well, wasn’t she just the voice of reason? Of course when she put it that way it made her sound like she was right, but Draco knew she wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Ginny Weasley was completely wrong.

“And last night, you yelled for that bezoar and then you were inconsolable. Draco Malfoy! Hysterical over Harry Potter! You know what everyone else saw?” Ginny gave a tight smile and scoffed. “A hero,” she spat. “Or a friend. Do you know what I saw?” She pointed her wand and whispered a Finite Incantatem.

Draco remained on the floor, under her boot. “Let me guess,” he growled. “Someone who cared?”

“Not exactly,” Weasley said with a nasty glint in her eye. “I saw someone who was guilty.”

Draco’s heart stopped for a moment and he just stared at her, breathing heavily.

“I saw someone who hurt someone that they cared about. I saw someone who was horrified with what he had done, who tried to fix it in a raving panic. I saw someone who was guilty.” 

“Like I said before, Weasel,” Draco spat, trying to quell the shaking in his hands, “you’ve been watching oo much Wizengamot Hour. It’s causing massive paranoia.”

“If you care about self-preservation, Malfoy,” Ginny Weasley sang in a sweet voice, “like I know you do, then hanging around Harry is a conflict of interest. He’ll end up getting hurt—oh, excuse me—he’s already been hurt. And you’ll end up madder than the hatter you’ve already turned into. You won’t just hurt Harry, Malfoy, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Oh, please. You don’t give a rats arse about me.”

“No. And if you wanted to hurt Harry, I probably wouldn’t even care, because at least he’d know where he stood. But this? Don’t do this. You’re fickle. I can see it. You don’t know what you want. You’re going to hurt Harry and crazier than all of that is that you don’t want him to get hurt! And yet you’re actively putting him in danger.”

“Potter can make his own decisions.”

Weasel pressed the heel of her boot into Draco’s chest and leaned lower. “Yes, he can,” she whispered, “but the question is, can you?”

The Weaselette released her toe-hold on him and made a quick exit, slamming the door behind her. Draco sat up and rubbed his chest.

“Yes,” he spat at the door. “I can!” Draco noticed that his hands were trembling violently and he held them in front of his eyes, watching their movement with a bemused expression. He was sticking with his original plan now and Potter’s trust would only make things easier. Draco could control his emotions. He could forget to care about Potter. 

Shit. It was true then. Draco cared about Potter.

Well, not anymore.

The thought caused his chest to clench tightly and he sensed the start of a panic attack. Draco pulled himself up off the ground and dusted off his trousers. “Winky,” he called out.

Winky appeared in the broken little room with a crack and a bow. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

Draco smirked. “Take me to Knockturn Alley.”

 

….  
….  
….

“You listen here, you speccy prat.”

Harry strained to hear the voice. He could understand the words, but it wasn’t Hermione. It wasn’t Ron. It sounded like a girl, but he doubted Madame Pomfrey or Ginny would call him a “speccy prat.”

“You wake the fuck up, do you understand me? You just—just snap out of it Potter and wake up!”  
She let out a frustrated sigh and Harry felt his body shake.

He felt his body shake! The girl must have shoved him. But why? Harry was in a coma for crying out loud, who was this cow?

“Wake. UP!”

Harry felt his shoulders move back and forth and then heard a dry, desperate sob. “Dammit Potter, he needs you! And I mean really needs you!”

“Who are you?” Harry mentally screamed, knowing it was useless.

“He almost defected last night,” she hissed. “Do you realize what that means for him? For his family? Do you even care?”

Defected . . . ? She could only be talking about one person. Malfoy. Which would make the girl who was shaking him and insulting him in the Hospital Wing none other than Pansy Parkinson.

“And it’s more than that, Potter! Draco needs you now. Today. You lazy shite, don’t you care? You were in the Prophet which means the Dark Lord knows about the state you’re in and he’s planning something huge.”

Shite. Shite! Why hadn’t Harry thought of that? How had that never occurred to him? And with everyone out of Hogwarts for the holidays, Harry was a sitting duck and the rest of the students were in danger outside of the protection of the Hogwarts walls.

“I’m sure you want me to tell you what he’s planning, don’t you?” Parkinson paused. “Well, I won’t, Potter, because that would make me a blood traitor.”

“Oh, how terrible that would be for you, Parkinson,” Harry yelled to the expanse.

“I just have a really bad feeling about it and—especially with the papers saying Draco’s a hero and all that, well, now he’s back on the Dark Lord’s radar, isn’t he?”

Harry dream-frowned. Hero? What sort of hero was Draco Malfoy? A hero of poisons? A hero amongst Death Eaters? A hero of hiding out and doing drugs when you’re too scared to face the world?

“Which means . . . well, I don’t know what it means, exactly, but I know it means something terrible for Draco. This might be it, Potter! He was ready to defect if you came out of this and now, with you laying around like some bloody invalid, he’s going to do something terrible, I just know it. It’ll be too much, it’ll push him too deep. He won’t be able to walk away from it.”

Harry felt the odd sensation of Parkinson touching him with both hands and was vaguely certain that she was rubbing his shoulders. He shuddered. Ew.

“Relax, stupid. I can feel you tensing up. That moron Pomfrey is clueless when it comes to Class D poisons. The more exposure you have to voices, to touch, to humans, the faster you’ll come out of this. And I hope I’ve given you another reason, too, you lazy sod.”

Parkinson may have been right about the human touch. Harry was certain that she was rubbing his shoulders now. He could even sense fingers.

“Don’t be mad at him, Potter.” Parkinson sighed. “And don’t go into some holier-than-thou tirade about how killing is never justified. He feels bad enough. Merlin, I can’t even explain it, Potter. I have never in my life seen him torn apart like this. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen him express regret.” Parkinson gave Harry a tight, painful squeeze, then resumed rubbing. “He was an absolute wreck. A madman, Potter. Over you.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to think—it was too much—and finding emotions in this state was complicated. He was certain of one thing, though. Parkinson was absolutely right. Harry needed to get out of this sodding bed and keep Malfoy away from whatever Voldemort had planned.

She stopped rubbing and Harry could hear that metallic sound again. Pansy’s was lower and more choked than Hermione’s. “I’m so scared for him, Potter,” she cried. “I know he’s always been a prat to you, but, really, you deserved it and—Draco is sensitive! He’s just—He’s not like anybody else. He’s his own person and I’m afraid of what he’s going to become if he—” Parkinson choked out another sob. “I’m afraid to see him in a year from now, if he even lives that long. Already—I mean, bloody hell, Potter! You see it! You see what it’s doing to him—its probably why you’re suddenly so involved in the first place. And forgive me, I don’t understand what Draco sees in you, but I swear, if you can get him out of this mess and save him from becoming . . .” she trailed off, then Harry felt ten fingernails digging desperately into his shoulders. “I’ll lick your fucking boots, Potter!” she spat, her voice ragged and demented. “I swear to you, four-eyes. I’ll even lick the soles.”

“Ew, ew, ew,” Harry muttered. God, he never knew Parkinson was so terrifyingly intense.

“Now, wake up, you lazy shite!” Harry felt Parkinson swat at his shoulder and was pleased to register slight pain. “Enough fucking around in there.” She jabbed at his scar repeatedly. “You’re needed.”

She shook his shoulders for emphasis throughout the rest of her speech.

“You owe him Potter,” she hissed, he thought, into his ear. “You. Owe. Him. He saved your bloody life, you selfish bastard. Now bloody well save his!”

He felt himself drop back to the bed and heard the sound of clicking heels carrying Parkinson to what he hoped was a safe distance away.

Everything she had said had sounded true. She was certainly right about the human contact, as strange as it was, and she was probably right about Voldemort planning something. Harry hoped she was wrong about his interest in Draco, but it sounded plausible, so she was probably right about that, too.

But one thing she said had struck Harry as odd.

When had Malfoy ever saved his life?

….  
….  
….


	18. Chapter 18

The cold, empty halls of the Hogwarts dungeons swallowed the sound of Draco’s slushy footsteps in a strangely smothering echo. Without the other students, the emptiness of Hogwarts was stifling. It felt like a prison, or at least what Draco imagined a prison would feel like. He wouldn’t know. His father never wrote to him about it— probably too busy counting cockroaches and carving a daily notch into his cinderblock wall calendar.

Rehearsal for Christmas Eve Mass had been humiliating, to say the least. A certain part of Draco had wanted to beg the director to give his solo to someone else. He’d been afraid to go back to church, afraid to face the once pleasant memories the Dark Lord had raped from his mind and afraid to open his heart now that he’d effectively sealed it shut.

Attending rehearsal had been a choice made on a whim. He couldn’t face seeing his friends pack up and cheerily button up their cloaks against the winter chill, ready to head home to warmth and presents and families. Draco hadn’t exactly wanted to attend rehearsal, but Christmas Eve was the next day and ever since his mother had been Crucioed, Draco had avoided rehearsals, his mother, and anything else that reminded him of the incident. In fact, he was certain that the director, fed up with Draco’s lack of dedication, had scrapped his part, anyway.

But Draco had arrived early at the church in Knockturn Alley for the final dress rehearsal for the Christmas Eve mass. He figured he might as well, as he had nothing else to do over Christmas except sulk in his room and resume work on the Vanishing Cabinet. Winky had apparated Draco to Diagon Alley, no questions asked, and waited patiently for him on the steps of the church.

Draco had crept into the old building, hoping to blend into the background and praying that the director had forgotten about the whole solo thing. He was stunned when, having spotted Draco, the director bustled over and enveloped him in a warm hug dripping with glitzy scarves and sheer wraps made of gauzy fabric samples.

“Oh, Draco!” Marla LeFavre cried. “How wonderful to see you. I’m so happy you made it. You’ll be here tomorrow, won’t you?”

Draco smiled and gave a polite nod. “Yes. I’m happy to be here, too.” He waited for her to say something about his solo, but she just smiled at him fondly until he was overcome with guilt. “Um, and I understand, you know, after missing all those rehearsals, about the solo thing. I’m sorry if I caused any problems.”

“No problem at all, dear,” Marla said with a frown. “It should be me apologizing to you.” She put an arm around him and herded him towards the piano in the practice room. “We should have contacted you sooner and put you on the prayer list.” Cool hands reached out and grasped Draco’s tightly as he tried to follow what she was saying. “Well, you’re on it now, love.”

“Er-contacted?” Draco managed.

Marla plopped a stack of parchment onto the piano stool and began sifting through the sheets. “Oh, but of course you wouldn’t know. You were at Hogwarts, silly me. It came from your mother.”

From his mother? Why would his mother write to the church and not tell him? First of all, his mother could care less if he attended choir rehearsals. More importantly, his mother was probably traumatized from the incident with the Dark Lord. It was highly unlikely that she would reach out to the church of her own volition. Something wasn’t right. Whatever note Marla had, it wasn’t a letter from Narcissa Malfoy.

“Ah!” she pulled something from the stack and held it out toward Draco. “Here it is.”  
Draco reached out a hand and Marla dropped something into it. Expecting a smooth paper envelope, Draco snickered when he saw what it was. In his hands was a tea towel. A bloody tea towel from Maggs.

Exhaling in relief, he opened the towel and raised his eyebrows. At first, Draco was impressed. Maggs had clearly been practicing her correspondence. The tea towel was a detailed map of pictures and hieroglyphics depicting a series of events, separated by arrows. First, Maggs had drawn a box and etched a sample image of Narcissa and Draco. The name “Draco” had been scrawled over a smiling blonde stick figure in Hogwarts robes. Maggs must have nabbed the spelling of his name off the letter from the church. 

The image of Narcissa had long blonde hair. She was holding a tiny baby and an arrow was drawn from the baby to Draco, to show that Draco was the blonde woman’s son.

After that, the images grew increasingly disturbing. Some showed his mother in bed. She was not smiling in these pictures, not like she had been on Draco’s tea towel owls from Maggs. In these drawings, his mother appeared ill. Maggs must have embellished Draco’s tea towels so that he wouldn’t worry about his mother. 

Well, he was worried now.

The pictures showed suns and moons for the passage of time—about three weeks— and detailed his mother’s slow progression back to health. 

Then the pictures became downright humiliating. They were of images of Draco and the accuracy gave him chills.

There was a picture of Draco looking sad, crying, with a thought bubble and a picture of his mother inside. Another showed Draco looking angry. This thought bubble had a man behind bars—his father. 

A flush began to climb up Draco’s neck at the shameful images that Maggs had sent to his choir director. He clenched the towel in one hand as the other continued to drag along the scratchy path of arrows.

Draco and Pansy sitting back to back; Draco in the Hospital Wing, pointing to a cut on his head; Draco stuffing his face in the bloody kitchen for God’s sakes; Draco with an X over his mouth, standing next to a Jarvey in Care of Magical Creatures . . . Draco at the Three bloody Broomsticks with a bottle in his hand and X’s over his eyes . . .

“Oh, God.” He could feel Marla watching him, gauging his reaction, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from the horrifying, embarrassing and eerily accurate tea towel in his hands. 

Draco blinked in shock, afraid to look up, shamed by the knowledge that this woman had looked at this bloody thing and had drawn her own conclusions, none of which could possibly shed the Malfoy family in a decent or dignified light. 

“This is—” his voice cracked. He cleared it and tried again. “This is not . . . uh. Excuse me. What I mean to say is . . . this—oh, Merlin.” Draco finally glanced up at her, his face aghast. “I don’t know what to say,” he admitted.

She gave him a soft smile. “You don’t need to say anything dear, the letter speaks for itself.”

Nervous laughter bubbled up and Draco buried his face in his hands to stifle it. He could feel the heat radiating off of his flushed skin. He wanted to die. “This is completely humiliating,” he murmured into his hands. 

Two hands grasped his shoulders. “We all go through rough times, Draco. Your mother—”

“It’s from her House-elf,” he breathed.

“Oh, I see.” Draco pulled back from his hands and saw that Marla was giving him a serious look. “Well, I’m sure he-or-she meant well.”

Draco figured Maggs meant well, too. Still, that didn’t stop him from wanting to slam her ears in the oven a few times. . . at least until her face was burning as much as Draco’s. Clearly, Marla could follow his train of thought, though, and was sticking up for Maggs to avoid getting getting the loose-fingered little grease-ball into any trouble. 

“I’m sure she did.” He nodded slowly and Marla smiled. 

“That’s a talented House-elf your family has.”

Uh. “Thanks?”

“I thought your mother was just very artistic.”

Draco, unable to form words or coherent thought, made a funny face. “She can write.”

“Of course she can,” the director laughed, “but it’s obvious that she was ill and that you were worried about her.”

Draco nodded dumbly, feeling like he was five years old. His hands were beginning to shake as his body gave rise to a panic attack. This was so embarrassing . . . so undignified. Malfoys were strong, stoic. Their problems—if any—were never supposed to be aired out in public like, well, literal dirty laundry. Thanks to Maggs, Draco looked like nothing but a sad, sloppy little boy with screwed up parents who sat around crying all the time. It made him sick to imagine what Marla must have thought of him. “I don’t drink!” he cried, suddenly.

He received a hard look from the director and shriveled under her steely gaze. “Never-mind,” he muttered. He glanced at the towel in his hands--the thought of handing it back to her now unbearable. “Can I keep this?” 

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Draco stuffed the towel in to his pocket.

“Now,” she said, hefting another stack of parchment off the floor and onto the piano stool. “It’s been awhile and you need to practice. So,” she thrust a copy of music at him and he took it, puzzled. “Let’s get cracking!”

Draco frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m still singing?”

She widened her eyes. “Well, I certainly hope so. We’d planned on it. Julie will be here in an hour so you two can practice the duet. You didn’t want to—?”

“No, no,” Draco said, hastily, arranging the music on the stand in front of him. “I do. I very much appreciate it—thank you. I just thought, you know . . . ”

“Draco,” she said with a smile. “It’s fine. You’re here now, so put it out of your head and let’s get started.”

Draco had given her an uneasy smile and thanked her. Despite the overwhelming embarrassment of Maggs’ tea towel he was, in a way, grateful of Marla’s acceptance—churchgoers!—and the distraction that the choir would provide from his lonely Hogwarts Christmas.

He was actually looking forward to tomorrow.

“Carpere Mortem.”

Draco entered his dorm, noting the absence of certain items that made the dorm a familiar home: Crabbe’s Crab pillow was gone, leaving a gaping hole at the top of his bed, as well as the comfort of Goyle’s ever-present pile of laundry. Even Zabini’s dusty collection of Quidditch magazines had been removed from his nightstand. 

Draco’s eyes settled onto his own bed, however, when he noticed an unusual addition. In the center of his four-poster was the brown envelope Creevey had tried to give Draco and a hastily scrawled note on a ripped-open box of Fizzing Whizbees.

Damn picture. Damn Creevey.

Draco stomped across the room and snatched up the envelope.

Damn Dumbledore. Damn Goyle. 

Damn Pansy. Damn Weaselette.

He glared at it, then reached in and pulled out a photo.

Damn Potter. “Damn, Potter!” Resisting the urge to tear the photo in half, Draco crumpled the hard, plastic image in his hand, feeling the sticky, glossy paper and edges, sharp against his palm.

In the next breath, Draco choked out a relieved sob. “Damn Potter.” He was alive. The bastard was alive.

Draco released the death hold he had on the photograph and smoothed the strange Muggle image out in his hands. Creevey had scribbled a caption in the margin of the picture that read, “Malfoy calls for a Bezoar.” Above the caption was an image of Potter lying on the ground at Slughorn’s party with Draco in the background, a look of pure terror on his face. There must have been something wrong with the Muggle photo because Draco had never seen a look on his own face like that before. Never. He was unsure his cold face was even capable of twisting into that look of complete and utter anguish.

And Creevey—the squirrely little sicko— had thought Draco would willingly sign his name to this trash? Letting out a disgusted snort, he stuffed the photograph into his schoolbag beside the newspaper article of Katie Bell and picked up the note on the Fizzing Whizbees box.

Guilt settled into his stomach when he recognized the handwriting. Goyle, of course. Who else would write a note on a sodding box of Fizzing Whizbees?

Draco,

Where did you go? I looked everywhere and couldn’t find you. Anyway, I had to get on the train. I wish we had a chance to talk. Something important has come up and I wasn’t sure what to do, so I’ll just do what I think you would do.

I hope I’m right. I’m not sure—I’m worried. I wish we could have talked, but oh well.

Have a Happy Christmas, Draco. Stay safe.

Goyle

….  
….  
….

Draco was exhausted, but for the first time in a long time, he felt wonderful.

“You were,” Marla gushed, pulling him into a tight hug, “phenomenal. Just phenomenal, Mister Malfoy.”

Draco could feel the blush spreading across his cheeks and grinned, despite himself. “Thank you.”

“It gave me chills.”

He nodded graciously, though he was thrumming with pride. “Thanks.”

Marla held him by the shoulders and shook her head fondly. “We’re so proud of you, Draco—”

“You were great, Draco!” another choir member said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. Draco nodded, beaming.

“And we’ve got one more surprise. Look who made it to London to watch you sing!”

A feeling of apprehension crept up his spine. Marla released his shoulders and Draco spun around slowly to face his visitor.

His mouth dropped open in shock as he was pulled into a tight embrace. “How—?”

“Happy Christmas, my son.”  
….  
….  
….

Harry squinted his eyes against the bright, jarring light in front of him. Through his blurry vision and the dull thudding in his head, Harry could make out soft, frizzing white hairs and familiar blue eyes, crinkled in the corners from age, peering at him from behind their half-moon spectacles.

“Why’s it always you?” Harry asked, his voice dry and raspy from disuse. 

The blue eyes crinkled up even further and Harry heard the familiar, warm chuckle. “Whatever do you mean, Harry?”

Harry’s eyes drooped shut. He still felt incredibly weak and wondered, briefly, if he was under the influence of pain potions. Probably. “Whenever,” he cleared his throat, “whenever I wake up here, there you are, as if you knew it was time and rushed over here.”

Dumbledore smiled kindly at Harry and nodded. “Well, Madame Pomfrey alerted me that you were showing signs of waking and I thought it most important that we speak, Harry.”

Feeling slightly suspicious, Harry forced open one eye. “What day is it? How long have I been out?”

A frown replaced Dumbledore’s kind smile. “One week, Harry.”

“Voldemort is planning something,” he slurred, remembering the urgency of Pansy’s words.

Harry sensed tension in the air and cracked open his other eye to get a good look at the Headmaster. “Is it your scar, Harry?” Dumbledore asked.

“No,” he yawned. “It was . . . someone. Told me. While I was asleep.” Harry felt the pull of darkness and was shocked out of it by Dumbledore’s hand on his shoulder.

“Who, Harry? What did they say?”

Harry remembered that when Pansy Parkinson told him, she was afraid of being viewed as a blood traitor. In exchange for the information she gave him, Harry, in his cloudy mindset, felt obliged to keep her identity a secret. “Don’t remember. But—keep an eye on Malfoy. I think it’s something to do with him.”

“Draco Malfoy?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“The young man who saved your life . . . ”

Harry’s eyes snapped opened. That was the same thing Parkinson had said. “What do you mean?” he demanded. 

Dumbeldore’s face looked very grave, moreso than usual. “Harry, since you’ve been, hmm, out, let’s say, much has happened—”

Harry sat upright in bed, feeling suddenly more alert. “What’s wrong?”

A heavy sigh could be heard from the old man and Harry knew—knew— that something awful had happened. “I’ll tell you in a moment, Harry, but first, we must celebrate.”

Dumbledore gestured to a small pile of paper-wrapped parcels on the bedside table. 

“Right,” Harry muttered. Christmas gifts. “Are you sure we can’t—?”

“During times of great trouble, Harry, it is critical to bear in mind why we fight for what we do, and the reason for that is our family and loved ones.”

Harry nodded reluctantly. What wasn’t Dumbledore telling him? A feeling of unease prickled through him, but he fought it down. He picked up the first package and checked the tag which read “To: Harry, Happy Christmas! From: Ron.” Ron had attempted to write Harry’s name in a handmade bolt-of-lightening font, but the charmed bolts kept zig-zagging down the tag and fizzling out when they hit the enchanted scribbling of a snow bank. A smiling snowman in a pair of glasses that looked like Harry’s waved from the corner of the tag.

It was clear that Ron had been working on his artistic charms.

Harry grinned to himself and waved back before carefully removing the tag. Then he tore open the wrappings and his smile stretched even wider. Ron had framed a photo of Harry, Ron and Hermione from their first trip to Diagon Alley in second year. 

In the photo, Hermione stood stock-still with a nervous, forced smile on her face. She glanced back and forth, clutching her new school books before whispering to Ron something that looked like “Did he take it yet?” Ron was doubled over with laughter, pointing at Harry as Harry’s glasses, having just been snapped in half from his tumble out of the Floo, slid from his nose and fell clean apart into two pieces on the ground.

The picture was in a simple black frame. Harry set it back on the table and placed the snowman tag beside it before opening Hermione’s gift. Not surprisingly, Hermione had given Harry a book, but this particular book was an in-depth study of the founders of Hogwarts. No doubt, she’d given it to him to help him with his Horcrux research.

Dumbledore looked at the book and gave a nod of approval. “I see Miss Granger has kept the tradition of giving you practical gifts.”

Harry laughed in agreement. He wondered about the Weasley sweater Hermione had mentioned and then noticed he was already wearing it. It was warm and soft and green with a giant gold H on the front. He needed to send a thank you note to all of them after the holiday was over.

Harry set the book on the nightstand when another small package caught his attention. This package was wrapped in a standard British postal envelope, was stamped and addressed to Hogwarts School C/O Harry Potter which, curiously enough, had a postal address.

Harry tore open the envelope and pulled out a piece of folded notebook paper and a small eraser that looked like a strawberry ice-cream cone. He frowned and set the eraser on table, then unfolded the letter.

“I don’t believe it,” he murmured.

Dumbledore just smiled, looking unsurprised. He’d probably already found a way to read Harry’s letter without opening it. Despite that, Dumbledore politely asked, “What is it, Harry?”

“It’s a letter from . . . my cousin.”

Feeling supremely puzzled, Harry read the letter.

Dear Harry,

Smeltings has this one class called Correspondence that teaches you how to write letters. Piers—you remember him, right? says it’s an easy A, but I think he’s wrong cause why did I get a C the first time?

Anyway, we had to write pen pal letters to someone at another school. Did you know your freaky school has a address? I found it on the computer. I remember that giant saying the school was called Hogwarts so I looked it up on the internet. I’ll bet they don’t even have computers at your school even though Mrs. Pinter says computers are the future.

Anyway, I gave you a present. That can be your Christmas present, I guess. Mrs. Pinter let us pick out an eraser to give our pen pals and I picked the ice cream cone because I remember how dad never let you have any and I always got double scoops. Well here’s a scoop, from me to you. Happy Christmas, Harry.

Anyway, now your supposed to give me something. And write me back. And then we’ll keep writing letters until April when I have to do my final review project. Piers says to just cheat and print it off the internet, but I don’t know. I’m trying to work harder these days. I know I only got into Smeltings cause Dad went there and he never went to collage and I want to go to collage because Mrs. Pinter says collage is the future.

Anyway, do you have any girlfriends? Unless your a poof, that is. I don’t know, maybe you are. You did go on an awful lot about that Cedric. Was he really your boyfriend? I can’t see you having a girlfriend. No offense.

Anyway, I never said thank you for that thing that you did last year. In the summer, I mean. I can’t talk about it too much cause we have to let are peers edit this letter. Mrs. Pinter says the other letters can be private though. She just wants to make sure that we know how to write a “friendly” letter. Not that we were ever friends.

Anyway, thanks for that. I mean it. I never said it in front of Mum and Dad cause they’d kill me, but your okay.

Happy Christmas,

Your pen pal,

Dudley Dursley

P.S. Send me something cool.

The signature was penned with an excessively flamboyant flourish that looked ridiculous under the barely legible of scrawl of Dudley’s letter.

“Weird,” Harry murmured with a shake of his head. “Thought he hated me.”

“Harry, in life you’ll find that those under severe pressure from others to act a certain way can often be difficult to read,” Dumbledore agreed. “What appears to be hatred can often be something else, entirely.”

Harry searched Dumbledore’s eyes for his telltale twinkle. He somehow got the feeling that Dumbledore was not talking about Dudley Dursley.

“What I’ve always admired about you, Harry, is your incredible capacity for forgiveness.”

Harry nodded. “Er-right.”

“One more gift, Harry,” said Dumbledore. He handed Harry a small vial of potion.

“What’s this?”

“That,” Dumbledore said, “is a very rare potion called Felix Felicis.”

Harry’s jaw dropped in awe. “Slughorn told us about this! It’s liquid luck . . .” Harry’s Advanced Potion Making class had competed to make the best version of the Draught of Living Death, and the winner was awarded a vial of Felix Felicis. Slughorn had debated between Harry’s potion and Ernie MacMillan’s, eventually deciding to reward the Hufflepuff because he had finished the potion in a shorter amount of time.

“How did you—?”

Dumbledore shook his head and held up a hand. “Old men have many secrets. This old man, especially.”

Harry laughed. “Wow,” he murmured. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Professor.”

“My pleasure. Use it well, Harry.”

Harry nodded and placed the vial on the table beside his bed. He sensed a shift in the Headmaster’s demeanor and remembered that he had bad news for Harry. “Okay, so—what happened?”

Dumbledore handed Harry a copy of the Daily Prophet dated December 26, 1996. The headline read “Mass Breakout from Azkaban, Death Eaters on the Loose.”

Harry felt the color drain from his face. “No.”

“I’m afraid so, Harry.”

“No!” Harry slapped the newspaper onto his lap and pounded his hands on the bed. “Dammit! Did you know this was going to happen?”

“Harry—”

“What about Snape, that—”

“Professor Snape, Harry.”

“Did he know?” Harry was beginning to panic. He could see it all now. The Order members, his friends, everyone had been distracted—too worried about Christmas, probably too worried about Harry, for God’s sakes, that they hadn’t paid any attention to what was going on around them! “Did that slimy git know? He must have! Why didn’t he warn you?”

“Harry,” the Headmaster said in a warning voice.

“Sorry,” he muttered, opening the article more and scanning it. Mugshots of the Death Eaters that had been imprisoned last May—Malfoy, Nott, Dolohov, Avery, Crabbe— stared up at Harry, their cruel faces, mocking. 

The images swam in Harry’s vision. It had all been for nothing. Everything that had happened at The Department of Mysteries—all of it had all been for nothing. Nothing! The Order had fought and Voldemort still got away. Sirius died for nothing. The Death Eaters they caught were all on the loose again, every last disgusting one of them.

“Perhaps I should have waited to tell you—”

“No,” Harry snapped. “No. I can handle it.” He took a deep and controlling breath to try and calm himself down. If he erupted every time he heard bad news, Dumbledore would continue to keep important information from him and he needed to be let in, he needed to know. “Sorry, Professor.”

Dumbledore nodded solemnly and turned to look out the window. “That’s quite alright, Harry. I’m sure it’s a shock to the system to wake from being poisoned, only to hear this.”

Harry said nothing for a moment, unable to tear his gaze from the leering faces on the newspaper in his lap. He had a desperate urge to take his finger and gouge their eyes out, but knew that doing so would not help him prove his maturity to Dumbledore. 

Perhaps when Dumbledore left . . .

“So, what happened?” Harry asked at last. “Tell me. I can handle it,” he added with a challenging look at Dumbledore.

“Professor Snape did warn the Order, Harry,” Dumbledore said, “but there just wasn’t enough time. I have to admit, Voldemort planned it perfectly, down to the day.”

“Christmas,” Harry said, knowingly.

“Christmas,” Dumbledore agreed. “Christmas and a full moon.” He took his spectacles off and wiped them clean them with the fabric of his light blue robe. The blackness of the curse in his hand appeared to be spreading further up his arm and Harry’s stomach churned at the sight. “The Order members were with their families. It happened quickly—too quickly. Professor Snape had only minutes to warn us and, I’ll admit, they caught us unprepared.”

“Is everyone okay?”

Dumbledore nodded. “Auror Moody and Auror Tonks were the only members that made it to the prison in time, but the Death Eaters had lookouts and the breakout was imminent. Ours were outnumbered and overpowered, but worry not, Harry—they are safe.”

Harry shook his head in disgust. Of course Moody had been there. Constant Vigilance. That man never would have been off his guard, even on Christmas. Moody and Tonks against an army of Death Eaters. It made Harry sick. If only he would have been awake—he could have helped! “This happened because of me.”

“Why would you say that?”

He remembered Pansy’s words. Voldemort was planning something—something big. Voldemort must have known that Harry had been poisoned. “Was it in the papers? The poisoning, I mean.”

“Yes, Harry.”

Harry nodded tightly. “I see.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said softly, placing an arm on Harry’s shoulder, “you can’t think this is your fault.”

“I don’t think it—I know it. It’s because I wasn’t around.” Harry spat, vaguely aware that he sounded like a bit of a prat. It was like saying that he was such a superb dueler that he was the only thing standing in Voldemort’s way. He knew that wasn’t true, but from Voldemort’s standpoint, it could have been. “Because of the wands—the twin cores. Voldemort—”

“Harry.” Dumbledore’s voice had an edge of warning to it and Harry decided to back off. What could he say, anyway? What had happened, happened. It was over. 

“Well, I’ll bet the Slytherins had a merry old Christmas,” he grumbled. “They all got their bloody fathers back—”

“Harry, that is enough.”

Harry glanced up at the Headmaster. He was not smiling.

“Sorry, sir.” The photographs in the Prophet were giving Harry a creepy-crawly sensation, so he folded the newspaper up and set it on the table. He’d gouge their eyes out later. Settling back into the bed, Harry could feel himself beginning to drift off to sleep against his will. He shut his eyes for a moment then, sensing Dumbldore’s continued presence in the room, opened one out of politeness.

“There was one more thing I wanted to discuss with you, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “If you’ll forgive my callousness, would I be wrong to assume that progress has been made with Professor Slughorn?”

Harry narrowed his one eye. “Yes.”

“I see.”

Dumbledore’s overall lack of compassion was slightly annoying him, but really, when had Harry ever been anything more than a tool to the man? Even the Felix Felicis probably had something to do with the war. “Is that all, then, Sir?” He felt a sudden pressure behind his eyes and winced.

Dumbledore let out low hum. “Harry.” He gave Harry a considering look. “When I asked you to complete this assignment for me, I had assumed that you would do so using legal methods.”

Harry gulped. Dumbledore must have read his mind . . . “Er—”

“If I wanted Professor Slughorn placed under the Imperius Curse, Harry, I could have done so myself.” 

“So, why didn’t you?” Harry snapped. He felt weak and confused and thirsty . . . Merlin! He was so thirsty! Harry’s eyes began to rove around, looking for a glass of water or juice or anything, but he found nothing but his presents, a mahogany case that he knew to contain his wand and the cast-aside newspaper.

“Harry, you must understand. Memories are very sensitive things. Memories are subjective—and each memory unique to its holder. Every memory comes with a sort of imprint on it, one might say.”

“Imprint?”

“The emotions of the holder, Harry, make a memory as true as the actual events of the memory itself. They are of equal importance, you see. The perception and intention of the words are as important as the words themselves.”

Harry frowned, his head growing cloudier by the minute, hating the feeling in his chest that told him he had somehow disappointed Dumbledore. “I don’t get it.”

Dumbledore nodded his understanding. “Imagine two lovers, Harry, quarreling. Having what one might call a ‘lover’s tiff.’”

Harry began to blush at the implication. He nodded uncomfortably.

“If one lover spoke the words “I hate you,” to the other, what do you think that would mean?”

Harry tilted his head to the side. “That they were angry about something?” he guessed.

Dumbledore nodded. “Would it indicate pure hatred of the other?”

Harry shook his head.

“Very good. It would indicate passion. And we know this because we know that they are lovers and that the intention behind those words would have meant something entirely different. But separated from that intention, the words ‘I hate you’ would mean just that. It is the emotions behind them, Harry, that carry the true story.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed.

“The same is true of memories. If you were to procure that memory from Professor Slughorn without his consent, in a state where he found himself unable to reach his emotions concerning the memory, you would find yourself with a memory as tainted as the first.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling stupid. Of course, this was why Dumbledore hadn’t just forced the man to give it to him on his own.

“True memories must be given with free will, otherwise they will never tell the true story—  
remaining but a harsh echo.” Dumbledore then conjured a glass of water for Harry who reached for it and began to gulp. Dumbledore raised a hand and Harry found that the water was now flowing slowly toward his needy tongue.

“Careful sips, Harry,” Dumbledore warned, then continued. “It is the same reason that Voldemort can read your mind, take your unwilling thoughts, and still come away with a twisted view of your own needs and desires.”

Harry frowned, trying to piece that together.

“One of Voldemort’s gravest faults is his gross over-confidence. He believes he knows you, Harry, but he does not and cannot. When Voldemort accesses your mind he comes away with only a handful of facts. He can be told of your weaknesses and of your ability to love others so deeply that it is both a strength and a curse—”

Harry glanced down at his hands. His ability to love was both a strength and a curse. It was a strength because Voldemort couldn’t understand it but it was a curse in every other way.

“—but he can never truly understand why you make the choices that you do, Harry, and in that lies your advantage.”

Harry took another controlled sip of water, then set the goblet down on the table beside his bed. He noticed that this was the same bed that he had been in when he’d suffered through the agony of Skele-Gro. Across from him was the bed that Malfoy had stayed in only weeks—or was it years?—earlier. “What do I need to do, Sir?”

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes glittering. “Oh, I’m sure all you need is a little luck, Harry.” The man stood and patted Harry on the shoulder before turning to leave the Hospital Wing.

….  
….  
….

It burned. It bloody burned. It was blazing, tearing through him, oh God! He was on fire.

Flames licked through his body, scorching his veins, his vision swimming, blackness, smears of torchlight, scorching, red eyes, burning him.

Sounds of screams, bellows of agony, the whimpering of not-quite-men reduced to writhing masses. Knees cracking tiles, shards of useless bones.

Evil. In him. Inside him. He wanted to die. He wanted to die! His body, torn to a million pieces, shredded by wild demons, searing, violent tremors, his feeble core fighting back—futilely resisting the invasion as his heart pumped lava through him, liquid flames. He’d never win. What was left? Nothing left, nothing left!

Just give in! Give up!

Words spit from his mouth, whatever they wanted to hear, if only it would stop, if only it would stop!

Desperate pain devoured as the sickening smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. And finally, as hot darkness shrouded his very soul, seeping into every crack and every crevice, he knew he was lost, lost, lost forever.

….  
….  
….

The new term started with little fanfare. Harry was fully restored to health, thanks to Madame Pomfrey’s excellent care and once Harry had assured his friends that he was fine and, no, he didn’t know what had happened, the students fell back into their average routine and Harry returned to his life, as well. There was much discussion about the Azkaban breakouts, but no progress had been made in apprehending the criminals and returning them to prison. It appeared that they were in hiding—all of them—protected from any sort of tracking charm.

Harry had thought the Slytherins would look like a smug bunch, but since returning from Christmas, most had seemed surprisingly sullen. Perhaps they knew that people were now tracking their every move. Maybe they assumed that their parents had been safer in Azkaban. Harry, for one, was certain that if he found himself face to face with any of those rotten Death Eaters, he would quite literally destroy them.

The more he thought about the breakout, the angrier he became. What was wrong with the Ministry? How could this have happened—again? Loath as he was to admit it, perhaps it hadn’t been such a bad thing having the Dementors guarding Azkaban.

He shook his head. Heck, for all he knew, the Ministry had been infiltrated by Death Eaters who wanted the prisoners to escape. With Ministry officials like Dolores Umbridge, who either were evil or were so stupid that they inadvertently supported evil, it was difficult to pinpoint the real cause for the lacking Ministry.

Harry glanced at Malfoy who was completely engrossed in his stew. It had been two weeks since the poisoning and Harry hadn’t heard a single word from Malfoy. He had expected a conversation, an apology, or even just a get-well wish, especially after his semi-conversation with Pansy and Malfoy in his sleep, but every time their paths came close to crossing, the Slytherin turned in the opposite direction and fled. If he had been responsible for the poisoning—and Harry was almost certain that he had—then why hadn’t he apologized? If he hadn’t, why wouldn’t he at least ask how Harry was feeling? For Merlin’s sakes, they’d been together when it happened!

That left Harry with one conclusion. It hadn’t been an accident. Malfoy had intended to poison Harry all along. That had been his task— to get Harry Potter out of the way so the Death Eaters could escape Azkaban. 

Malfoy thought to use a bezoar? Big deal. It wasn’t Malfoy’s job to kill Harry, after all. That was Voldemort’s job. So, Malfoy poisoned him, fixed him up and came out looking like the Wizarding World’s new teenage hero. Hooray for Malfoy—he got everything he ever wanted, all wrapped up in one neat little package.

Malfoy was still staring at his untouched plate of food as if it held the secrets of the universe. Harry shot him a dirty look, anyway.

“Let’s go, Harry,” Hermione said, snapping Harry out of his thoughts. They stood from the dinner table and began walking back to the Gryffindor Common Room. Harry had just remembered to thank Hermione for her Christmas gift. “I’m glad you liked your Christmas gift. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow it—I’d like to check a few things.”

Harry grinned. “Not at all, Hermione.” He dug into his messy bag and pulled out a handful of clutter to make a path for the book. He handed her the book and went to put the mess back in his bag when Hermione stopped him.

“Harry—what’s that?”

Harry glanced at his hand. “Er—a Dumbledore Chocolate Frog card?”

She shook her head. “No, Harry. The vial.”

Harry peaked at the small, tear-drop shaped vial with the tiny cork. The liquid inside was a honeycomb gold, churning slowly. “Oh, it’s—”

“It’s that Felix Felicis?” she hissed, grabbing his arm. Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

Harry stuffed the rest of the mess into his bag, pulling a loose moonbeam band off of the vial and holding it up for her to see. “Yeah. It was a Christmas present from Dumbledore.”

She laughed incredulously. “That’s—but Harry! I don’t believe it.”

He shrugged and put it back in his bag. “I know. Cool, huh? I was thinking I could use it at the next Quidditch match.”

“Harry!”

“Kidding.” He held his hands out in a defensive gesture. 

She gave him a shrewd look. “Well it’s not like you haven’t been cheating in Potions class all year . . .”

Harry rolled his eyes as they entered the Common Room through the portrait. “Using tips from someone with experience is not cheating. It’s like . . . er, studying. Yeah. Studying with someone who is really smart.”

She shook her head. “Or someone who wants to hurt you,” she grumbled.

Harry collapsed in his favorite armchair by the fireplace. “You know, I can’t tell what bothers you more, the fact that I’m doing better than you in Potions—”

She scoffed. “Oh, please.”

“—or the fact that you actually think I’m in danger. Which is it?”

Hermione’s scowl slowly faded and she sat bolt upright in her sofa. “You know what you need to do, don’t you?”

“I’m not getting rid of the book, so don’t even suggest it.”

She shook her head. “No, Harry—not the book. The potion!”

“The Felix?”

“Yes, of course!” A thoughtful frown had replaced her earlier look of annoyance. “I’m sure of it. I’m sure that’s why Dumbledore gave it you.”

“What? Tell me already!”

“To get the memory, of course!”

That hadn’t even occurred to Harry, but now that he considered it, he was certain that Hermione was right. What had Dumbledore said in the Hospital Wing? All Harry needed was a little bit of luck? Harry laughed out loud. “You’re brilliant, Hermione!”

She gave a sheepish smile. “Well, it was a bit obvious . . .”

“Hmm. You’re right. It was,” he said with a wink.

The bottom of Harry’s bag really was a mess, he decided, as he pulled out the vial again. The stopper came off the vial with a soft pop and the smell of cinnamon and honey filled the room.

Hermione frowned. “What are you doing, Harry?”

Ron hadn’t mentioned anything about using the Imperius Curse on Slughorn since Harry’s poisoning, but there was no point in waiting around, in case he became suddenly impulsive. “I’m going to get that memory.”

Her brown eyes widened, raking over the room in surveillance. “Now?”she hissed.

Harry raised and lowered his shoulders. “There’s no time like the present.”

….  
….  
….

Memory firmly grasped in his left hand, Harry nearly skipped out of Hagrid’s hut. It had been so easy. The Felix Felicis had guided his every move, gently encouraging his actions and Harry had listened willingly, trusting the strange instincts that propelled him over the grounds with a curious energy directing his moves.

Some things didn’t make sense, but he trusted the Felix, trusted himself, trusted his words and his actions and boy, had he gotten lucky.

Grinning from ear to ear, Harry slipped over the grounds heading back toward the castle. He was out after curfew, but he knew with total assuredness that he would not get caught. And if he did, it wouldn’t matter. It was fate. The perfect fate.

A small, giddy giggle worked its way up out of him as he crunched through the dirty, icy snow. Nighttime at Hogwarts had been particularly frigid that year, but ever since the blizzard, the snow had come in unhurried wisps, occasional lazy appearances, as if the weather simply couldn’t be bothered to put on another show. Everything, it seemed, was suffering from a Holiday hangover and as Harry avoided a muddy puddle of slush, he knew that included the weather.

The air smelled wet through his frosty nose and the woodsy scent of pine on the edge of the Forbidden Forest caught his attention. So familiar. So welcoming. The Forest was where he needed to be.

Harry checked his watch. It was only 9:00. The potion wouldn’t wear off for another two hours, he guessed. The Forest would be safe. Nothing would harm him tonight—yes, the forest was definitely where he needed to be.

Turning off the path of student footprints, Harry inched closer to the forest. The snow here was deeper, untouched, and he trudged over the crusty layer toward the pines, burying Slughorn’s memory deep into his pocket for later viewing. The memory was important, he knew, but it could wait. Something stronger was calling Harry into the trees. 

A twig snapped in the distance and Harry stilled, listening. Sharp, shuddering breaths could be heard coming directly from the grove of pines. They sounded human. Who could be out here, hiding in the woods at night? He wasn’t sure, but something told him to keep his wand in his pocket. Holding his breath, Harry crept closer, stalking silently up to a large fir.

A person—a student?—was crouched on the ground, looking closely at something. A fur-lined cloak had been cast aside and was lying beside—him, it was a him—in the snow.

This struck Harry as odd. It was too cold, way too cold, to be outside without a cloak. He grinned despite himself, recalling how he had learned this lesson himself, the hard way.

The person shifted and Harry saw the side of his face. Oh, brilliant. It was Malfoy.

No, wait. It was brilliant. With the potion thrumming through his veins, Harry would say all the right things—he’d get a confession, an explanation, something! Suddenly, with more excitement than the moment warranted, Harry leaned down, scooped up an icy clod of snow and lodged it at the side of Malfoy’s face.

The wet ball hit its target with a sharp clash, sliding down the pale, red-tinted cheeks and into the collar of Malfoy’s shirt. The blonde sputtered, crying out, and Harry almost felt sorry for the git because it actually looked like it hurt.

But certainly not as much as being poisoned. 

Or betrayed.

Furious eyes whipped around to Harry and Malfoy scrambled to his feet.

“Cold, Malfoy?” Harry asked, lightly. He already had another snowball in his hand and was casually tossing it up and down, waiting for the right moment to throw it, or to simply smash it into the boy’s face.

Malfoy opened his mouth as if to say something, then, glaring, he shook his head and picked his cloak up off the ground. 

Anger surged through the glow of Felix Felicis and Harry took a threatening step forward. “I want answers, Malfoy. Now.”

“Is that right, Potter?” Malfoy asked in a soft voice. “Well, tough luck for you.”

Unbidden laughter erupted at Malfoy’s reference to Harry’s luck. How wrong Malfoy was.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and turned toward the castle. With lightning speed, Harry was on top of him, slamming Malfoy against the trunk of the tree. Malfoy shoved back, dropping his cloak in the snow, but Harry was too strong—he had him pinned.

“What do you want from me?” Malfoy asked, his hands gripping tightly into the shoulders of Harry’s cloak, pushing.

“Answers, Malfoy! Real, bloody answers.”

“Keep dreaming, Potter.”

“You owe me that much!” And suddenly, despite the Potion’s calming confidence, Harry felt his emotions cracking through. It was too much, being so close to Malfoy—knowing what he had done and seeing not even a shred of remorse. Perhaps the dream had been just that—a dream. Harry’s voice was suddenly choked. “You owe me, you bastard! Tell me. Please, just tell me.”

Malfoy was shivering in his white cotton shirt, holding Harry’s gaze. His eyes were dark, metallic and Harry had to look away.

“You were lying to me,” he whispered. “Weren’t you?”

Maybe he’d been wrong about the potion. Maybe it wouldn’t—couldn’t—work for this. He’d misread the signals, hoped for too much. All he wanted to hear him say was that it hadn’t been a lie, that Malfoy wanted to change sides, wanted him the same way that Harry, God help him, still wanted Malfoy.

What had just led Harry to Malfoy had been nothing more than a sodding luck potion, not a wish granter. How stupid he’d been to hope. Felix Felicis couldn’t change the past. It couldn’t give Harry the answers he was looking for—the one answer, the only answer. It was completely impossible.

Keeping his eyes ashamedly averted, Harry untwined his fingers from Malfoy’s shirt and took a step back. “Just forget it.” His breath came out as a small cloud; he sniffed in the bitter cold, the smell of pines just as strong as before.

He began moving away, the potion’s pull now a dim glimmer, too faded to decipher. Malfoy’s body was still pressed against the tree, his hands dropped at his sides. 

Directionless, Harry stumbled through the pines. Malfoy hadn’t said a word—hadn’t confirmed or denied anything—and yet the rejection Harry felt was indescribable. It was over, all of it. Malfoy hated him—would always hate him—hated him so much that he’d tried to kill him. It was because of his misplaced trust in Malfoy that Harry hadn’t been able to help the Order of the Phoenix at Azkaban. Harry’s stupidity had made it possible for Death Eaters to run free. 

The sound of quick footsteps crunching in the snow came towards Harry and without a second to prepare himself, Harry was pinned against another pine, one pale hand on his chest, the other tangled in his hair as Malfoy leaned into him, his eyes dark, his breathing erratic.

“What is it,” he hissed, “that you want from me, Potter?” Malfoy pressed the flat of his hand harder against Harry’s chest and Harry pushed back, one hand raised awkwardly, trying to free Malfoy’s painful hold on his hair and the other pushing against Malfoy’s chest, warm under his cotton shirt. Harry could sense the boy trembling beneath his fingertips, could feel his heart beating a steady rhythm into his hand and thought, huh, so he does have a heart, after all.

Harry looked at him again. Malfoy’s face was red from the cold and his hair and cheeks were shining from the wet snow. Warm dampness radiated through the thin cotton and despite his evident chill, heat was rolling off of the boy in waves.

“Nothing,” Harry whispered, just wanting to get out of there, to get away from him. The heat, the proximity was dizzying. Malfoy smelled like he had the night Harry had found him by the entrance to school—like snow and sweat, but this time with a hint of soap. Harry’s hand slipped listlessly from his hair—he had no fight left in him—and he dropped his head. “Nothing you could ever give me.”

Malfoy’s heavy breathing continued, its moist warmth clouding against Harry’s cheek. He could sense that Malfoy’s eyes were locked on him, and a surge of nervousness tightened low in his body. Malfoy said he wanted Harry to leave; why wasn’t he letting him go?

Malfoy’s hand began to press harder against Harry’s chest, his fingers snaking through the gap in the buttons until Harry could feel the heat of the boy’s palm against his own body, knew Malfoy was sensing his own heartbeat and Harry stilled at his own vulnerability. “Malfoy . . .” Harry’s voice was strained, barely a whisper.

His breath caught in his throat as Malfoy turned Harry’s head to the side by his hair, pressing their faces together, cold cheeks brushing. When he whispered back, his voice was low, and his lips moved lightly over the tips of Harry’s ears. “You’re sure there’s nothing,” his cold nose trailed slightly along Harry’s cheek, “that I could give you, Potter?”

Unable to think, unable to speak, Harry took a shuddering breath. The scent of Malfoy’s skin filled him and warmed him. He exhaled, his body trembling against Malfoy’s, his hand, loosening, sliding down the moist fabric of Malfoy’s shirt to the base of his torso and Harry no longer knew if he was listening to his own will, or to the call of the potion or if he was under a bloody mind spell that had slipped in at Malfoy’s touch and taken control. 

His senses were overloaded, yearning for more, wanting to touch Malfoy, taste him, rub his hands along his body, but his mind was stronger. This couldn’t happen again. This needed to stop. This was a trick. This bloke, whose body was responding, tensing, writhing under Harry’s touch, had almost killed him. Was his enemy. Not his rival. His enemy.

“I’m sure.”

Malfoy pulled back for a moment and looked at Harry, narrowing his eyes in scrutiny, trying the ascertain the truth in the sentence.

“I’m sure.” Harry took a deep breath in and set his jaw, determinedly. “Let go of me.”

Grey eyes widened at the seriousness of Harry’s voice, and Malfoy loosened his grip, his warm palm falling to his side before reaching up to wipe some of the icy wetness from his own cheek. 

How had that just happened? Shame at his own pathetic weakness pounded through his body. What the hell had he been thinking—throwing a snowball at the person who had poisoned him and shown no level of remorse afterwards? It was idiotic Gryffindor courage at it’s finest. 

Harry shook his head. The potion. It must have been. “Dangerous overconfidence,” Slughorn had warned them, was a possible side effect. Harry had just propelled himself into a dangerous—stupidly dangerous—situation. He had to leave. Now.

Eyes still locked with Malfoy’s, Harry stumbled back a few steps in the snow. He knew he should turn and bolt, but couldn’t find the strength to look away. 

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said in a quiet voice. 

No. No, no, no, no. Not now. It was too late—it didn’t mean a damn thing. Disgusted with himself, Harry turned toward the castle.

And for a second time, before Harry had a chance to defend himself, Malfoy launched at him, slamming him against a tree trunk under a canopy of low-hanging pine branches.

Strong, pale hands wrapped tightly around his wrists with violent fervor and Harry found himself unable to break free or reach for his wand, still stupidly stashed in his cloak pocket. Malfoy moved in closer and pressed his heaving chest flat against Harry’s.

Harry froze, hypnotized by the look in Malfoy’s grey eyes. They were darkened with what looked like desire and Harry thought, surely that look couldn’t be for him. With their bodies pressed together, Harry could sense their chests rising and falling in a staggered beat. Malfoy was so close to him that his every exhale fogged the bottom of Harry’s glasses and caused the tips of their ice-cold noses to touch.

“I want—” Malfoy swallowed and his eyes darted to the side before settling on Harry’s mouth, “I think I want to kiss you,” he breathed.

Harry’s head shook slowly back and forth.

Grey eyes locked with his. “I have to kiss you.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know.” Malfoy pressed his warm lips lightly to Harry’s right cheek, “Don’t care,” and then to his left.

Harry shook his head again and struggled to free his hands from Malfoy’s grasp. “No,” he stated in what he hoped was a firm voice.

Malfoy leaned in and touched their lips together, speaking into Harry’s mouth. “Yes.”

He’d had enough. Short of kneeing Malfoy in the groin, Harry was not going to accept this. “No. No. No. NO. NO. NO.”

Malfoy pulled back slightly, his eyes wide.

“NO! Do you hear me, Malfoy? Can you bloody well hear? I said NO.”

Standing straighter, Malfoy drew his head back. “Why not?”

Unable to contain himself, Harry let out a growl frustration. “Because I know you’re a bloody Death Eater! Because you showed no remorse after nearly killing me! Because you lied to me and said if I lived, you’d switch sides! Because—”

“I said I was sorry.”

“YOU DIDN’T MEAN IT!” Harry gave another frantic struggle.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “How would you know? You’re a Seer now, are you?”

“Oh please,” Harry gave a derisive snort. “You only said it because you thought it’d get me to . . . ”

“To what?” Malfoy smirked. 

Harry writhed against the tree and let out another helpless groan.

“Say it, Potter.”

“Let. Me. Go. Now.”

“Fine.” With a devilish smirk on his face, Malfoy released Harry with enough force to cause him to fall back into the snow. Harry quickly scrambled to his feet and drew his wand on Malfoy. Screw trusting the Felix Felicis. Only a fool would remain unarmed around the Slytherin.

“I’m leaving,” Harry barked, brushing the snow off of his trousers. “Don’t follow me or I’ll blast your sodding arse out through to the other side of the bloody forest.”

Malfoy scoffed and raised his hands in a gesture of defense. “Temper, temper, Potter. That’s a lot of vitriol coming from the bloke who apprehended me with a fucking snowball.”

“Don’t know what I was thinking.”

Malfoy bent down to pick up his coat and shook the leaves and twigs off of it. “Well, nothing new there.”

Harry let out a laugh. “Yeah. You said it. Getting mixed up with you was about the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.”

An unreadable look flashed across Malfoy’s face, but quickly faded, replaced by his usual sneer. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you, Potter.”

“Yeah? Can’t say I didn’t like you, Malfoy.” Harry shrugged. “For some stupid reason. Can’t say I didn’t trust you.” Something twisted inside Harry’s chest and he let out a short, sad laugh. “Because I did. Yeah, I know. How completely stupid.”

The sneer faded from Malfoy’s mouth.

“Have a nice life,” Harry muttered. “Maybe we’ll cross paths on a battlefield someday. Until then, I don’t ever want look at your face again. You make me sick.”

For one startling moment, Malfoy’s features had morphed into a look of complete and utter devastation. Confused, Harry blinked and shook his head—it didn’t make any sense. Malfoy hated Harry, tried to kill him, nearly forced him sexually against his will. He must have imagined it, or wished for it so much that his eyes were playing tricks on him. A second later the look, whatever the look was, had vanished, and in its place was another cold mask.

Malfoy stormed past Harry, slamming his shoulder into him as he went. Harry stumbled back against the tree where he had first found Malfoy sitting, and sunk down to the ground in the wet snow.

He ached—all over, inside and out. Nothing had ever changed between them. It had always been the same, it was still the same.

So why did it bloody hurt so much?

Harry smacked his hands against the forest floor in anger. His left hand hit something soft. Lying on the ground by the tree was a small, green leather-bound book. It must have belonged to Malfoy—must have been what he’d been looking at when Harry had arrived. 

Then it hit him. The Felix Felicis!

Maybe this was what he was supposed to find! Maybe this book was what the Felix Felicis had been leading him to all along. Harry opened the book, and squinted at it, but was unable to make anything out on the pages in the dark forest. Sod it. He could look at it back in the castle, it was bloody freezing.

Harry stuffed the little book into his pocket and made his way back to the castle.

….  
….  
….

The silver strand glistened inside the tiny vial in Harry’s hand.

“You got it?” Ron asked, dog-earing a page of his book and closing it shut with a snap.

Harry forced himself to smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I sure did.”

Hermione jumped from her spot on Ron’s lap and threw her arms around Harry. “Oh Harry, that’s wonderful!” She pulled back from him for a moment and frowned. “You’re all wet.”

Exhausted, Harry didn’t even have the strength for a nervous reaction. He sighed. “It wasn’t easy.”

Ron laughed and moved in closer. “Well, come on mate!” he whispered in excitement. “Give us the details, how’d you get it from him?”

“Did you view the memory yet, Harry?” Hermione was stooped over, inspecting the memory in the bottle like it was a tiny goldfish swimming in a plastic bag.

“Did you use one of the ideas from the list?” Ron waggled his eyebrows. “Was it a love potion, Harry?”

Hermione shoved him in the chest and he stumbled back. “Ronald—don’t be foul!”

Ron let out a riotous laugh. “What?” he asked, reaching forward and ruffling Harry’s hair. “He’s rather got the look of someone who’s just been thoroughly snogged.”

The vial nearly slipped from Harry’s fumbling hands and he hastily shoved the thing back into his school bag.

“Mmm, touchy, are we?” 

“Ron, that is enough.”

“Old Sluggy a feisty one, Harry?” Ron rubbed Harry’s hair again. “Hey! What’s this?”

“What’s what?” Harry asked, nervously.

“Hmm,” Hermione reached out and plucked the object off of Harry’s head. “Looks like a sprig of pine needles.” She peered closer. “Blue spruce.”

Ron frowned. “How did you get—”

Harry reached his arms into the air and yawned loudly. “Boy, I’m knackered. I’ll catch you two tomorrow.”

“Er—” Ron began.

“Right,” said Hermione. She and Ron exchanged glances. “Good night, Harry.”

“Good night.”

….  
….  
….

Finally, he had a way to get back at Malfoy for the shite he’d put him through. He’d have proof of Malfoy’s plan—he could take it to Dumbledore and the git could go move into Dear Old Dad’s prison cell for all Harry cared.

An image of Malfoy shivering in tattered clothing in Azkaban flit through Harry’s mind and, fighting down his initial disgust, he laughed cruelly. It was just what the rotten, pathetic git deserved. 

Harry opened the door of his dorm and reached into Neville’s candy bowl, popping a lemon drop into his mouth. He stuck the wrapper in his pocket and then felt around for the book. Was it a diary? Would it be filled with all of Malfoy’s nefarious little plots? Maybe it would detail every single way he manipulated Harry this year.

Unwilling to share his find with anyone else, Harry quickly pulled on his pajamas and climbed into bed with the book. He drew his curtains and locked them, then fixed the book with a greedy stare.

“Thank you, Felix Felicis.” 

The book, while small, was very thick. About twice as thick as it was wide and made of a very soft, pliable material. Harry opened the front cover of the book. The first page was left blank. Harry shrugged and turned to the next page. Also blank.

Perhaps it was invisible ink.

“Aparecium,” he tried, but nothing changed. He picked up the book and opened it to the middle and what he saw nearly caused him to swallow his lemon drop whole.

Coughing, he held the book up closer to his face, unable to believe what he was seeing.

“What on earth?”

A little cartoon picture of—it couldn’t be . . . but who else was it?

“That’s me.”

Harry reached out his finger and traced the lines of the little cartoon. It was a drawing of a bloke with messy black hair, big round glasses and a lightening scar. He was wearing Gryffindor colors and a gold cape and sitting on broom—a tiny little broom with even tinier letters reading “Firebolt.” A bold letter “P” was drawn on cartoon Harry’s chest. The face was drawn simply—a very circular head shape, a smiling mouth, two big green dots for eyes and a “V” on his forehead, making a frown. There was a wand clutched in his small fist.

“It’s me.”

He turned the page and noticed that the picture had changed very slightly. There was a circle in the bottom corner of the page that was now more evident.

He flipped to the next page. More circle.

Flipped again. A center hair part in the circle.

Then a neck.

Then a face. Then a little more face. Then two gray eyes and green robes and—

Merlin’s sake. “He’s made a bloody cartoon.”

….  
….  
….

According to Harry’s Tempus Charm, it was inching on three o’clock in the morning, but Harry couldn’t stop looking at Malfoy’s little green book. He’d cast a strong Lumos, propped his wand up against his pillow and flipped through the entire story over and over and over again for hours.

Malfoy had drawn this—he’d made this flip book. Each and every page—and there must have been thousands—had been sketched with detail and colored with pastels. It must have taken him days, at least, to create. He’d had to draw and redraw the same tiny pictures with the same tiny details hundreds of times and the end product was truly impressive.

It was a superhero cartoon and Malfoy had cast Harry as the hero. The odd thing was, there was nothing mocking about Harry in his flip book. Harry Potter was the hero, through and through. There was nothing in the book that could possibly indicate a dislike for Harry. In fact—

“Maybe we’ll cross paths on a battlefield someday. Until then, I don’t ever want look at your face again. You make me sick.”

Oh God. The words just kept playing in Harry’s mind like a broken record. And the look on Malfoy’s face—the devastation—it had been real. It had been.

Guilt was making Harry feel ill. He’d been so cruel, so awful. That wasn’t Harry. What had made him act like that, say those awful things? Think those awful things about Malfoy wasting away in prison, cold and hungry and despairing—think those things and laugh?

Malfoy had tried to kiss him. In return, Harry had thrown his heart on the ground and stomped on it. Spat on it. Threw Malfoy’s admittance of desire right back in his face and poured salt in the wound.

This was all so fucked up.

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and rubbed his eyes before raking his fingers through his hair. Then he picked up the book for the millionth time and flipped through it.

Harry Potter slowly rises from the bottom corner of the book on his Firebolt wearing his signature—what had Malfoy once called it? “Fierce Look of Determination.” Harry does an impressive barrel roll and then slides off the page.

A Dark Mark appears, rising like smoke from the bottom of the paper. Beneath it lay Malfoy’s cartoon version of human devastation: a curly cloud of ink scribbles with arms and legs sticking out.

A little girl wearing pigtails and an M on her shirt (Harry guessed this stood for “Muggle”) enters from the left. Tears roll down her cheeks in waves as she yells “Mama!” in a voice bubble. Suddenly, a monster with red eyes, a slit nose, and a resemblance to Voldemort that is too striking to be a coincidence, swoops in like a bat and disappears with the little girl.

This image fades and is replaced by one of a cartoon Malfoy, walking across the pages, innocently reading a book and eating an apple. Harry had laughed at this part every time because—come on. Was that honestly how Malfoy saw himself?

Along comes Voldemort out of the corner of the page again. Malfoy drops his apple and Voldemort swoops him up. Another image of the Dark Mark, which is also drawn with a suspicious amount of detail, appears.

Harry found the next scene painful to watch. Every time. 

The little girl and Malfoy stand in a room together. His wand is trained on her and tears fall down her cheeks in big, blue droplets.

“Help!” the little girl yells. She falls to her knees. 

Voldemort appears in the picture. He points his wand at Malfoy. “Kill Her,” Voldemort says.

A thought bubble appears above Malfoy saying “No!”

Again, Voldemort says, “Kill Her!”

This picture fades to a new scene. Harry is flying on his broomstick through cloudy skies. Malfoy’s image slides up in the corner. His mouth is open wide and the words “SAVE US, POTTER!” fill the remaining space of the page.

The scene returns to Voldemort, Malfoy and the girl. Harry Potter flies into the scene. Never leaving his Firebolt, Harry aims his wand at Voldemort and shoots him with a green light. Voldemort falls, then disappears in a cloud of smoke. The smoke clears and Malfoy and the girl climb onto Harry’s broom and the three of them fly off into the clouds, their faces alight with huge, bright smiles.

Malfoy’s clothing changes into a green and silver super hero outfit with a great big “D” in the middle of his chest.

The image fades and the words “The End” appear on the last few pages. 

On the back of this page is written “Malfoy Publishing Company, Copyright 1996.”


	19. Chapter 19

“As we have now completed our theoretical discussion of Calming Draughts, we are going to begin creating yet another potion in the class of Calming Draughts known as the Soporum Serum.” Professor Slughorn turned from the students and wrote a page number on the blackboard. “Please get with the same partners you had for the Draught of Peace lab and turn to page 456 in your Advance Potions-Making text.”

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, Harry took a deep breath and resolved to do the inevitable. He’d been up half the night thumbing through Malfoy’s confusing flipbook and up the other half of the night trying to force himself into a sleep that just wouldn’t come.

He may have dozed off at one point, but the dreams were firmly within the realms of his conscience mind and consisted of him apologizing to Malfoy and Malfoy, being predictably haughty, refusing to accept.

The Advance Potions-Making text felt flimsy in his hands as he braced it tightly for strength and comfort. It offered none and so, exhaling with a slight eye-roll, Harry made his way over to Malfoy’s desk.

Setting the book gingerly on the corner of the shared table, Harry stole a glance at Malfoy’s face. The boy’s jaw was clenched tightly together and his face was drawn into an irritated scowl. He was flipping through his Potions text with determination and Harry was sure that Malfoy had passed by page 456 several times already.

Sighing, Harry did the same with his book, being careful not to dislodge any pages from the battered binding. Harry had Malfoy’s flipbook with him, fully intending to return it today, and it was currently burning a hole in his pocket.

Page 456 had a list of potion-related questions on it; a follow up to the potions study they had been doing since the start of the new year.

“Today we will begin by conducting interviews,” Slughorn said, and he cast a spell that magically projected the words from his Potions text onto the blackboard. The text took on the quality of chalk and even appeared to be written in Slughorn’s choppy handwriting.

Professors at Hogwarts rarely used this spell, most opting for the old-school approach of lecturing and note-taking. Ron, Harry knew, fully appreciated when Slughorn added this visual element to the lesson as Ron sometimes had difficulty following along. Heck, so did Harry, most of the time. 

Hermione also approved of the spell, even though she didn’t need it. “Everyone learns differently,” she had said. “I swear, sometimes Hogwarts is stuck in the stone-age.”

“Now,” Slughorn continued, picking up a sheaf of parchment and a quill and setting it atop another book with a Semi-Sticking Charm, reminding Harry of a clipboard. “I need a volunteer—erm, not this time, Ms. Granger, though I do appreciate your enthusiasm—”

Hermione lowered her hand, looking sheepish.

“—Perhaps . . . hmmm—Mr. Finnegan.”

Blue eyes shot up from across the room. “Uh-what? Er-sorry?”

“Mr. Finnegan, step to the front of the room here, don’t be shy.”

Seamus raised his eyebrows and looked to Dean for help. Dean shrugged, offering his friend a small look of sympathy. Seamus peeked down at his book for a moment, as if searching for an answer there and, finding none, let out a small sigh and stumbled to the front of the room, in front of Harry and Malfoy’s desk. 

“Thank you Mr. Finnegan, thank you,” Slughorn said, then turned to the class. “I’m going to read Mr. Finnegan the questions in my book and he will give me an answer. I will write his answer onto my numbered parchment and so on and so forth. Partner A will be responsible for asking odd numbered questions and Partner B, in turn, will ask evens. Are there any questions?”

No one raised their hand, so Slughorn continued on. “No questions?” He surveyed the room and stopped on Neville who was frowning out the window, clearly not paying attention. “Mr. Longbottom?”

Neville jumped. “Uh! No.”

“Very good.” Slughorn’s eyes roved the room again. “Mr. Malfoy?”

Harry heard Malfoy take a sharp inhale of breath. He looked up from his book and pinned Slughorn with an annoyed stare. “Yes, Professor?”

“Do you have any questions about the assignment?”

Malfoy shot a darting look at Harry and his lip curled slightly. “May I work alone, please?”

Slughorn’s eyebrows rose dramatically. “I beg your pardon?”

Harry dropped his head into his palm as every student turned to look his way.

“Frankly, Professor, I find Potter to be unprofessional. Last time we worked together, he intentionally sabotaged the Potion—”

“I did not!” Harry cried out, indignantly.

“You did.” Malfoy turned on him with furious eyes that made Harry freeze on the spot and shrink slightly into himself. “You did. He struggled to understand the basic concept of measuring—”

“—that was a mistake and besides—”

“You see, Professor?” Malfoy said to Slughorn in an infuriatingly calm voice. Slughorn appeared completely baffled at the childish bickering of two of his Advanced students in 6th year. When Snape taught Potions, Malfoy pulled shite like this all the time, but he’d never spoken to Slughorn in such a manner before. “With all due respect, sir, I understand the point of the partnership is to learn from one another, but I’ve always been an independent thinker—”

Harry snorted contemptuously. He couldn’t help it.

Malfoy shook beside him then closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I work better on my own.”

Slughorn looked between the two of them, then spoke, his voice aghast. “Mr. Malfoy, I think you’ve said more than enough. And Mr. Potter, I’m shocked that you, of all my students, would—”

“Hey-I didn’t do anything! I don’t have a problem with the partnership,” Harry began to say when he was interrupted by Malfoy who was looking at him as though he had three heads.

“What are you talking about?” It seemed Malfoy’s calm demeanor was gone, replaced by a look of confusion and anger.

“I said—”

“THAT IS ENOUGH!”

Harry swallowed hard and tore his gaze away from the blazing grey eyes that had him pinned with their cold intensity.

Slughorn was visibly shaking with anger. “Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Potter! This disruption will continue no further! You will complete the assignment together in detention and I’ll not hear another word of it. Leave my classroom at once and when you return at 7:00, I want 16 inches on respect for authority from each of you.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. He had never seen Slughorn so angry, but then again, he had never seen top form students engage in a shouting match or question the man’s authority in his own classroom. Seamus was staring at Harry and shaking his head. “Bugger,” he mouthed. 

Scowling, Harry closed his Potions book and shoved past Malfoy to get his bag at his desk. As he made his way for the door, something shot out and caught his foot and he tripped, smacking the stone with his hands. His book fell out of his bag and the weak binding snapped, pages flitting softly from the cover to the floor like bird feathers.

A feeling of horror rose sharply in the pit of his stomach as the hand-scribbled pages scattered across the room. The implication of the Half-Blood Prince’s “tips” in Harry’s possession could be enough to expel him from Hogwarts.

Harry heard a small gasp from Hermione as he scrambled forward, quickly trying to grab the pages before anyone could see them. Throbbing hands moved, stuffing sheet after sheet haphazardly into the cover when two things happened. 

First, the remaining pages lifted of their own accord and flew into Harry’s book. Someone had clearly cast a strong spell to Summon all of the loose papers quickly into one place. Then, Harry heard a spell cast and another body fell to the floor beside him.

Theodore Nott’s feet had been bound together and he was scrambling to stand, cursing under his breath. Utterly confused, Harry looked up to Hermione, who was staring at the door, wearing a look of shock on her face. He followed her gaze to see the back of Malfoy, retreating quickly from the room.

….  
….  
….

“Tough luck, mate,” said Ron. “Didn’t think old Sluggy had it in him.”

Harry shrugged, copying his conclusion from an essay on respect that he had written for Professor Umbridge last year. Luckily he’d kept a scratched-out draft in his possession on the likely chance that another Professor would find him disrespectful in the future.

“Yes, Harry. What was that all about?” Hermione asked, peeking over Harry’s shoulder at his work and clicking her tongue in disapproval when she noticed where Harry was getting the content for his essay.

“Reckon he didn’t want students yelling in his class,” Harry muttered. “Don’t know too many Professors who do, though Binns doesn’t seem to mind all too much.”

“You’re talking about MacMillan and Bones?” Ron interrupted with a smirk, referring to the lover’s tiff the two Hufflepuffs had engaged in several weeks ago.

“No, no,” Hermione said. “Not that. I meant, what was that all about with you and Malfoy?”

As far as Harry had registered, his and Malfoy’s disagreement had appeared to be little more than their usual argumentative banter. Like the way they used to fight in class. Before.

Ron picked at his quill and frowned in consternation. “Yeah. Yeah, Mione’s right-it was different. What’d you do to him?”

Harry’s back straightened and he was overcome, yet again, with guilt. Maybe someday we’ll cross paths on a battlefield . . . “I didn’t do anything!”

“He was like really pissed.” Ron was nodding as he seemed to replay the scene from Potions class in his head. “Yeah, like really pissed—in a weird way.”

“Hmm,” Hermione offered. “He does usually control himself better around professors. And then—” She frowned.

“What?” asked Harry.

“Well. I think that . . .” Hermione gave a soft laugh and shot a look at Ron before glancing back at her ancient copy of ‘Runes and Ruins: Egypt’s Magical Past.’ “Never mind.”

“Okay,” Ron said in an easy tone, pulling a long, red hair out of his quill feather and making a face before tossing it to the floor.

Hermione sighed. “Only that . . .” 

Finally dropping his quill and giving Hermione his full attention, Harry looked straight at her. “Only what?”

She glanced back at Ron as if she were hesitant to say what she wanted to say in front of him. A little ball of fear began to form in Harry’s stomach, but he couldn’t quite understand why. 

“The Leg-Locker Jinx,” she said.

Brown eyes whipped away from the feather quill, looking amused. “Cast on Nott?” Ron asked in glee.

She shook her head with a small smile. “This is going to sound mad, but, Harry, do you know who tripped you?”

Harry balked. He hadn’t noticed anything like that. “Tripped me?” 

“Tripped you?” Ron asked. She nodded.

“You were sitting too far away, Ron, but Harry, the reason you fell was because Nott stuck out his foot and tripped you.”

“That bastard!” Ron cried. “That Slytherin scum!”

“I didn’t even notice,” Harry murmured.

“Well, no, you wouldn’t, would you? With evidence of your cheating flying all over the Potions classroom?” 

“Hermione . . . ”

She had a slight look of irritation on her face, but she rolled her eyes and shook it off. “Anyway, I swear to you, Malfoy was the one who cast the Leg-Locker Jinx on Nott.”

Harry and Ron wore matching expressions of disbelief. “Are you serious?” Harry asked. 

“I thought no one knew who did it,” Ron said, looking dumbfounded. 

“I didn’t even know I was tripped.”

Hermione shrugged. “Well, there was a lot going on. But I know what I saw.”

“Bugger,” Harry muttered. “Why would Malfoy hex Nott?”

Ron laughed. “The git was obviously aiming for you, Harry.”

Feeling a small surge of disappointment, Harry looked back down at his pitiful essay. “Oh.”

“No—that’s just it, Ron. He wasn’t. Malfoy was definitely aiming at Nott. And it was after he tripped Harry—why would he cast a Leg-Locker Jinx on someone who had already tripped?”

Ron looked up to ceiling. “Er—so he’d never get up?” Hermione gave a small, patronizing sigh. “Well, what are you saying, Hermione? Malfoy was defending Harry after he’d refused to be his partner for a stupid interview project?”

The three were silent for a moment. Hermione obviously had no answer to that and Harry really had no answer to that. Unless, he thought, softly patting his pocket where Malfoy’s book was stashed, unless Malfoy didn’t hate him after all.

You make me sick.

Impossible. Harry had to apologize, to explain. This whole thing was getting so ridiculous and worst of all Harry felt guilty because his friends were trying to help him and he was deliberately withholding information from them—keeping secrets.

Why was he keeping all of this to himself, anyway? Part of it, he knew, was to protect Malfoy for some inexplicable reason. Also, it had been sort of his secret from the start—though Hermione was very clever and keen and Harry was quite sure she knew something was happening behind the scenes. Ron was no dummy, either, though the current look on his face could have fooled anyone.

Perhaps he should just confess—come clean. Harry and his friends had never kept secrets from each other and this—all of it—was just too much to hold inside to himself. He suspected that Hermione would be understanding, she had been before after her strange talk with Malfoy, but Ron . . .

And Ginny. God, Ginny. Harry had completely forgotten about her after the Christmas Party. Come to think of it, he hadn’t spoken with her directly at all. What was wrong with him? She was his friend, too . . . 

Feeling overwhelmed and impulsive and finding it difficult to form rational thought, Harry blurted out, “I think I could be gay.”

The second he said this he just wanted to take it back, take it back, take it back.

What had he been thinking? Was he now going to say he’d snogged Malfoy? Well, it was obvious, wasn’t it? They were just talking about Malfoy and he just fucking said . . .

And Harry wasn’t even sure if it was true… if he was gay or if it was just Malfoy or one of those rare cases of teenage psychosis . . .

The kind that make you blurt things out like that for no bloody reason.

The Common Room was nearly empty and oppressively quiet, save for the soft clacking of Gobstones, and the absent-minded humming of Neville as he tended to his plants on the other side of the room.

Harry gulped. Picked up his quill. Traced over the letters of his title until the ink nearly bled through parchment.

A soft clearing of the throat alerted Harry to his awaiting trial. He glanced up at Ron who was looking at him, expression unreadable, and then at Hermione who was chewing on her lower lip, a slight frown marring her features.

I think I could be gay.

The word Harry had hardly dared to think was now sitting in the wide open, echoing in the silence of his friends. He could feel a nasty flush heating his features, his ears burning the way they had when he’d been nine years old and dragged to a beach function with Dursleys. He’d been buried in the sand by Dudley and left in the blaring sun with no suncream for twelve painful hours until a four year old in nappies unearthed him with a plastic shovel. The resulting heat of sun poisoning had been unbearable and not even climbing onto a chair and sticking his head in the Dursley’s freezer provided him with any relief.

It seemed he was now in another ear-burning situation, only this time it was brought upon by himself, and no take-backs or cool bags of frozen peas were going to undo it.

And he wasn’t even sure if it was true.

“Um.” Ron shook his head slightly and blinked. “Sorry. What did you say, Harry?”

“Ron,” Hermione interjected in a warning voice, which only increased Harry’s discomfort. The room began to spin slightly around him, weaving a dizzying pattern in front of his eyes. He had to say something, right? Had to say it again, because he’d said it already and even though Ron was asking for clarification, Harry was positive he’d heard him the first time.

“It’s okay,” Harry said in an embarrassingly rough voice. He wasn’t sure what he meant by that or who he was trying to convince.

“Harry?” Ron asked, setting his quill down and shooting Hermione a nervous glance.

“Um.” He breathed deeply and found himself unable to catch a satisfying breath which made him think of panic attacks and Malfoy and he wondered if he was having one. Fuck. In for a knut, in for a sickle. “Think ‘m gay,” he mumbled in a rushed voice. “Er-maybe. Um. And maybe not. Um,” he let out a light, slightly hysterical laugh and ran a hand over his hot-to-the-touch skin, then buried his face in it. “Godric, I’ve no idea why I just said that.”

Hermione placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Godric?” Ron choked. “Who’s Godric? Your-,” he faltered, then whispered intently, “your boyfriend?”

Harry burst out laughing into his hand, he couldn’t help it, but Hermione must have thought Harry was crying or something because she began to reprimand her own boyfriend. “Ronald!” she hissed. “What is wrong with you?”

“Me?” Harry heard Ron’s predictable indignant response and laughed harder. He had the oddly detached sense that he was witnessing this conversation from somewhere outside of himself. He found he didn’t mind that so much. “What did I do? I don’t even know who Godric is!”

“Ronald!” Hermione hissed viciously, then turned soft words to Harry, running a hand along his back that was shaking with laughter. “Harry, when you were speaking you were mumbling into your hand and your best friend,” she punctuated the words with emphasis, “could not hear you properly.”

Harry laughed harder.

Hermione sighed. “Ron, he said ‘Godric,’ as in Godric Gryffindor.”

Slowly pulling away from his hand, Harry watched as Ron’s eyes bugged out of his head.

“What—you mean to tell me that Harry has a crush on Godric Gryffindor?” Ron paused, casting a hesitant glance at the portrait of the auburn-bearded man on the far side of the room. The portrait appeared to frown down on him and Ron jumped slightly, turning back to his friends and bringing his voice to a horrified whisper. “The Founder of Hogwarts?”

Unable to take it anymore, Harry turned to Hermione and the two wore matching looks of disbelief for about three seconds before dissolving into helpless laughter. 

“What?” Ron asked, sounding slightly hurt. 

“Sorry, Ron,” Harry said finally. “Forget—” he sucked in deep breath, trying to control his laughter because, amazingly, it did look as though Ron was trying be understanding. “No-forget Godric Gryffindor—”

Hermione tittered softly beside him and Ron looked more confused.

“That’s not what I said and I assure you he has got absolutely nothing to do with this,” Harry said.

Ron pushed his parchment away from him and turned to give Harry his full attention. The movement somewhat sobered Harry and he remembered that he had just opened an enormous proverbial can of worms and his friends were not going to let him walk away from it. “So, what are you . . . what are you trying to say, Harry?”

“Er just-just that I could be. Or couldn’t be.”

Hermione crossed her arms gave Harry a no-nonsense stare. “So, then, you aren’t actually telling us anything?”

Brilliant. Harry grinned. “Yes. That.” He picked up his parchment and handed it to Hermione. “Would you mind looking over this for me?”

“Harry . . . “

“Well, wait a minute,” Ron interrupted. “I don’t get it. You just blurt it out and that’s it and then nothing? What does that even mean?”

Feelings edging toward irritation but trying to remember why he brought it up in the first place, Harry decided to try and explain himself better. But there was so much to explain. Where would he even begin? “That’s pretty much it. I have no idea why I just said it. To be honest, I think I might be losing my mind a bit. It’s a possibility that I could be, based on—” he paused. “Based on a lot of things. That have happened. Erm-recently.”

Gobstones clacked and rolled across the stone floor on the far side of the room. “So, you might be g—you might, you think you might like blokes?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and feeling slightly relieved that his detention was quickly approaching to save him from this conversation.

“But you’re not sure?” Ron continued slowly, checking for clarification.

Chancing a look at his best friend, Harry was relieved to see a look of concern and curiosity on his face. Harry nodded slowly and Hermione reached for his hand and gripped it tightly. Apparently outing oneself in a wishy-washy manner led Hermione to get very touchy. She squeezed his hand tightly.

“That’s just fine,” she whispered. “Either way. And Harry, I’ll be honest, I’m a bit relieved.”

“Relieved? Why?”

She exchanged a look with Ron and released Harry’s hand. “Well, it’s just that, Ron and I have been worried about you and—”

“Not this again,” Harry mumbled, feeling immediately ungrateful but finding himself unable to control his agitation.

“No, really, mate,” Ron said with hearty nod. “This actually makes a lot of sense. You sneaking around and all that—”

“I haven’t—!”

Hermione cut him off with a quelling hand held in front of her face. She was going to make a marvelous mother someday. “Enough. No one is bringing anything into question, Harry. Whatever you decide is up to you, it’s your life.”

Harry offered her a half smile, feeling oddly touched.

“And,” Ron added, narrowing his eyes at Hermione, “while Hermione doesn’t seem surprised at all, I’ll admit, I’m a bit, um, caught off-guard, but.” He shrugged. “Yeah, mate. What she said. Whatever makes you happy. As long as it’s safe,” he added, with a Molly Weasley-esque finger point.

“Thanks, Ron.” Harry’s ears were still burning, but he was overcome with a feeling of hope. Maybe, bit by bit, he could let his friends in on what the hell was happening with him and maybe they could help. 

They always had before.  
….  
….  
….

“Gentleman, the directions are on the board and in your books. I trust you’ll be able to complete the assignment on your own?”

Harry and Malfoy were seated side by side at Malfoy’s desk in the Potion’s classroom. Slughorn had left the questions on the board for them to complete the interview and a cauldron had been set up with special Potions-only wands, for the practical portion of the workshop. They were to conduct the interview and record their answers on numbered parchment, then prepare, test and deliver the Soporum Serum to Professor Slughorn by nine o’clock.

Still finding the grounds for the detention harsher than he’d expected from the man, Harry briefly wondered if giving forth the Horcrux memory had made Professor Slughorn resentful. Not that it mattered tremendously but, when Harry thought about it, Malfoy was really more wrong than Harry had been this afternoon.

“And,” Slughorn fixed Malfoy with a suspicious stare, “I will know if you attempt to do the project on your own.” He tapped his head in a knowing way and gave a mysterious nod. “I have my ways, have no doubt about that.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry and Malfoy chirped together, the timbre of their voices making a strange harmony. 

“Wands?”

Harry reluctantly handed over his wand to the professor then looked over at Malfoy who had done the same. They were forced to be in this room for two hours tonight and Harry was determined to apologize and resolve his issues with Malfoy. This couldn’t go on between them any longer. It was making Harry insane, impulsive—

I think I could be gay.

Ugh. 

Malfoy caught Harry’s gaze then let out a disgusted sigh, rolling his eyes. 

“The wards should let you out promptly at nine o’clock. Knock on my office door when you’re finished. Dare I ask if you have any questions?” 

Harry shook his head and Malfoy murmured, “No, sir.”

“Very well.” Slughorn turned and began to waddle from the room before pausing. “I have to say, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy. I’m a bit disappointed.” He stoked his chin, thoughtfully. “And most confused. For a while it appeared as though the two of you were getting on, but—” he frowned. “Ah, well.”

Slughorn waved his wand over the room, undoubtedly locking them in with each other, then shut the door behind him.

The heavy click of the door snapping shut echoed throughout the room. Looking down at his hands, Harry felt a lot less brave than he had on his way over. But it didn’t matter. It was now or never.

“Listen, Malfoy—” he began, but was promptly interrupted.

“What are the three components that create the base of every Calming Draught and what are their distinctive independent characteristics?” Malfoy paused, his voice bored and drawling. “And their combined characteristics?”

Malfoy looked sick again, Harry noticed. His eyes were so deeply shadowed that there appeared to be purple bruises underneath. Whatever voracious appetite he had acquired seemed to have vanished and his clothing, tailored black robes that were clearly highly expensive, gapped under the arms and at the sides, making Harry think Malfoy had, again, dropped a drastic amount of weight. Malfoy’s hair was lackluster blonde and, Merlin, he looked so tired that Harry was tempted to tell him to just take a nap and allow Harry to do his work. But apparently Slughorn had “his ways.”

Fists clenched tightly, Harry took a deep and controlling breath. Malfoy’s avoidance was expected. Harry was counting on avoidance and most certainly an explosion of sorts—physical, emotional, typical-Malfoy . . . and hopefully some sort of acceptance or truce would follow.

“Malfoy, I—” Harry swallowed hard, and glanced into the impassive grey eyes. “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.” Dropping his eyes, he took another controlling breath.

Malfoy said nothing. 

The scratching of quill on parchment caught Harry’s attention and he glanced back at Malfoy who was writing on his interview sheet. Harry tried to peek at the paper, but Malfoy took a determined step backward. 

“Hey,” said Harry. “What are you doing?”

Malfoy glanced up at him, as though registering the words, then, mouthing them softly to himself, he resumed his writing.

“Hey!” Harry cried, “Don’t write that, you arse-tit, that isn’t my answer, I was just saying—”

A cool eyebrow was raised in return. “Hmm. Arse-tit, is it?” The quill scratched along the parchment. “Arse . . . Tit. Lovely. Though I don’t recall that word listed on the unit seven vocabulary page.”

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. 

Malfoy was trying to rile Harry up. He knew this and he wasn’t going to play into it. And honestly, Harry decided, he should let Malfoy write arse-tit on the bloody paper. Then they’d both get detention again and maybe then Malfoy would listen to him.

“Oh yes,” Harry agreed. “Arse-tit. Right between Anxiety and Berries, comma Hellebore.”

Malfoy made a small, sarcastic sound of understanding and continued to write.

“And, since you obviously find yourself quite clever right now, let’s see you write all of this.” Harry fished around in his pocket for the small flipbook and gently placed it atop the table. Malfoy, smirking, was too busy writing down what Harry had just said to notice. “What I said to you last night, Malfoy, was—” Harry paused, flustered by the sound of the quill, knowing that even though Malfoy probably was listening it was grating on his nerves that he wasn’t acting like it. “—um—it was wrong. Er- really wrong. And, um, mean.”

The pale hand scribbled furiously, trying to keep up. Harry wondered if he actually had it down word for word. Probably not.

“And not true,” Harry added. “Not true at all. You don’t make me—”

The hand stopped and Malfoy glanced up at Harry, face livid.

“Um,” Harry faltered.

“What?” Malfoy snapped. 

“Sick,” Harry offered, meekly and took a shaky breath. “You—”

The sound of a textbook falling caught Harry’s attention and he jerked his gaze up in time to see Malfoy shoving past him and diving across the desk for his flipbook. He snatched the tiny green item and stood stock-still, back to Harry. After several seconds, Malfoy spoke to the floor in a near-whisper. “Where did this come from?”

Harry took a step back and around the table, trying to see Malfoy’s face, but the blonde turned away from him, clutching the book tightly to his chest; his back, hunched and drawn in made him look vulnerable.

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” 

Malfoy made a low sound deep in his throat. “Where did you get it?”

“You left it in the forest.”

An uneasy stillness settled over the room, despite the feeling of the air being charged with static. Something was building up and Harry knew that this moment marked the calm before the storm. He could only imagine how Malfoy was feeling right now-vulnerable, embarrassed, violated . . . and he just wanted to make it go away.

The back of the black robes tightened and loosened around Malfoy’s heaving back and Harry could hear that his breathing had picked up speed.

Then finally, “Did you look at it?” The words were a stilted whisper.

“Yes.”

Malfoy ripped around, eyes blazing fiercely. “You bastard!” he screamed, losing all control. “That wasn’t yours! It was mine-it wasn’t yours to look at!”

“And yet,” Harry said slowly, “I did, all the same.”

The admission of guilt seemed to take the wind out of Malfoy’s sails and he just stood there, gaping, helplessly, his cheeks stained an ugly, blotchy red. 

“Malfoy,” said Harry. “That book was—”

“That book was none of your fucking business, Potter. Just—fucking! God, I hate you.” Malfoy’s eyes were bright and Harry was certain he had never seen anyone look so angry. “I hate you. I Hate You.” Malfoy let out a roar of frustration and clenched his hands into fists, storming away to the other side of the room and leaning helplessly against the locked door.

“I know,” Harry said softly. “I don’t blame you. I would hate me, too. Um. For what it’s worth, I thought your book was incredible.”

Malfoy shook his head and let out a derisive snort. “Yeah,” he said sinking to the ground and laying his chin in his hand, elbows resting on his knees. “I make you sick, Potter? You make me positively ill.”

Harry closed his eyes for a brief moment, steeling himself, and then said, “You drive me absolutely mad.”

Malfoy said nothing, though his brow quirked shortly in confusion.

“You’re infuriating and confusing and I don’t get you at all,” Harry sunk to his knees several feet from Malfoy then sat all the way down, crossing his legs. “And most of the time, I don’t think you want me to.”

“I don’t.”

Harry shrugged. “Then I’m not sure what you expect of me. One minute you’re poisoning me, the next your trying to bloody snog me, you say you want ‘out,’ then you’re hexing my friends-”

“She hexed me.”

Harry frowned. “What? Who?”

“Nothing. Is there a point to all of this, Potter? Because, honestly? Fuck you. I tried to work alone today, but Saint Potter had to go and make me look like an arse in front of everyone again.” Malfoy raised his voice into a high-pitched mimic. “I don’t mind being partners! You’re such a liar.”

“So are you!”

“So, what?”

“So, we should stop lying to each other, for Christ’s sakes!”

Malfoy said nothing, just scratched at his arm and stared at the floor.

“And,” Harry took a deep breath, feeling braver by the moment and not really sure why. “And I like your book. I think it’s really cool.”

Malfoy mumbled something that contained the word “cool.”

“Um, and I think you’re cool.”

At this, Malfoy laughed out loud and looked up at Harry. “Cool? You think I’m cool?”

Shrugging, Harry just grinned softly. He’d said it on purpose. He knew it sounded stupid and was banking on the probability that it would make Malfoy laugh and he was right.

He was getting better at this.

“You’re ridiculous, Potter. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m sorry. And—I like being around you.” Harry frowned. “A lot. Which really makes no sense since we spend most of our time arguing—”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Malfoy bit his lip for a moment then looked at Harry. “No, Potter. I’ve thought about it. I do. I hate you.”

Harry could feel himself getting hurt, but he was determined not to let Malfoy’s words affect him. Malfoy liked him, it was insanely obvious. Harry just needed to trust his instincts.

“Well, maybe you think you do.”

“No,” Malfoy snapped. “I do.”

Harry spread his hands palms up. “Fine. You hate me. I like being around you. You hate me and you want to snog me. So where does that leave us?”

“Wanted,” Malfoy corrected, “to snog you.”

“Okay. Wanted to snog me.”

Malfoy shook his head slowly and crossed his arms on his knees. “I don’t know,” he said, softly.

Harry sighed, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. He scooted closer to Malfoy on the floor and leaned against the wall beside the door. “Right. Can I see your book?”

Malfoy scoffed. “My cool book? Ha. Not bloody likely.” He placed a protective hand over his robe pocket.

“Another time?” Harry asked and Malfoy just stared at him.

“Maybe.”

They were quiet for a moment, Harry examining the scuff marks on his trainers and Malfoy pinching the fabric around the book in his pocket. Then Harry asked, “Why did you save me?”

Malfoy swallowed deeply and turned his head away from Harry, shaking it, softly.

“If you hate me,” Harry pressed, “Why did you save me?”

“I didn’t save you,” Malfoy muttered.

“Dumbledore said—“ Harry paused when he saw that Malfoy’s face was scrunched up tightly. “Um. He said you did.”

Malfoy shook his head harder. His voice was rough. “I didn’t, Potter.”

Letting out an irritated huff, Harry tried to remember the point of all of this. “Aren’t you tired of lying?”

Weary grey eyes met his as Malfoy pinned him with a glare. “Yes,” he said, sharply. “I am.”

“Then why don’t you just stop? I can tell when you’re lying, anyway, so the whole act is pointless.”

“Not pointless,” said Malfoy, gesturing his hand expansively. “Veritaserum. Legilimancy. I can’t just have fond memories of you lying around in my head.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “So Occlude.”

“So Occlude? That’s it?”

“I mean, I just don’t bloody care anymore. ”

Malfoy widened his eyes in mock horror. “You? The Boy Who Lived doesn’t care anymore? What will you fans say?”

“Fuck them.” Harry shrugged. “I’m sick of living for everyone else. I have a job that I have to perform and beyond that? I just don’t care.”

“I’m begging you, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Just put it out of your head. I was—last night, I wasn’t thinking straight and—”

“It wasn’t a Sleeping Charm, was it?” Harry asked, suddenly wondering if that could explain Malfoy’s actions.

“No! Christ, no-it wasn’t a bloody Sleeping Charm, Potter. Merlin. You find it that hard to believe that I’d want to—whatever. Just.” Malfoy sighed heavily and spoke again, this time his voice was gentler. “It doesn’t matter what I want, Potter. It can never happen. Okay?

Harry frowned. “No. I won’t accept that.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what you accept, Potter, because the offer isn’t on the table.”

Harry drew himself up onto his knees and took a deep and determined breath. Now or never, he told himself. “Malfoy,” he said, and scooted closer to the boy until their knees touched and he could hear the blonde’s heavy breathing.

“Potter,” Malfoy said in broken whisper. “Don’t do this.”

Harry reached forward and put a hand on Malfoy’s chest. His heart was beating a strong rhythm, like it had been yesterday. The heat of Malfoy’s skin was coming through the soft fabric of his black robes and Harry closed his eyes, afraid to see the look on Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy stilled under Harry’s touch and Harry just kept his hand on Malfoy, afraid to move, knowing that as soon as he did the moment would be lost. Something told him that this was his last chance with Malfoy-if it was to work it was going to work now or never at all, but Malfoy wasn’t saying anything or doing anything and Harry just kept pressing, eyes closed, trying to will the passion he felt for Malfoy into the boy through his thoughts and touch, his mind repeating a steady mantra of “Come on, Malfoy. Just give in.”

Harry felt a shift of fabric, then a hand wrapped around his own. He opened his eyes and soft warm lips planted themselves on Harry’s as Malfoy gave into what he clearly had wanted for some time. Harry, fully admitting to himself that, yes, he wanted this crazy bugger, too, reached his other arm around the back of Malfoy’s head, drawing him closer and kissing him back deeply, tasting him.

Malfoy’s breathing was heavy, erratic as he drew sharp breaths through his nose and Harry pushed him up against the door of the Potions classroom.

And suddenly it was cold. Malfoy had pulled away and was looking at him, his face a mixture of confusion and something darker.

“That’s it, Potter,” he said, panting. “No more. No more. Never again.”

“But—“ Harry wasn’t going to give up so easily. He reached forward and wrapped his hands around Malfoy’s forearm to pull him back, trying to regain that closeness and warmth and Malfoy that had just been his entire world only seconds ago.

Malfoy winced, gasping in pain and jerking out of Harry’s grasp. He squeezed his eyes together tightly and huddled himself into a ball, as far from Harry as he could get.

“What’s wrong . . .” Harry’s voice trailed off when he noticed that Malfoy was cradling his left arm in his right, his hand covering his forearm protectively. 

No. It couldn’t be.

He was too young—he was going to defect—Pansy had said so!

“Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was barely audible as he inched closer to Malfoy. “Let me see your arm.”

Malfoy swallowed hard and shook his head, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Dammit, Malfoy!”

“Something happened,” Malfoy mouthed, desperately. “Something happened—terrible happened to me, Potter. Something happened, I didn’t mean. . . .”

Panic and hurt and confusion were rising in Harry’s chest and he didn’t know if he was angry or afraid, but he just wanted to see it, he had to see it, to know if it was really there. “Let me see it,” he said in a strained voice.

Malfoy squirmed away and finally looked at him. Terrified grey eyes were shining with unshed tears. “No-you can’t! Potter-it just happened. It-it’s,” he made a gutteral, choking sound. “Christmas . . . Christmas Eve.” He was breathing hard and blinking rapidly, swallowing over and over again.

“Please, Malfoy,” Harry begged.

Malfoy shook his head, hard. “Can’t,” he said. “I’ll go to—you’ll tell—”

Heart aching, Harry reached forward and placed a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. He didn’t care about telling on him, he just couldn’t stand seeing Malfoy in so much bloody pain. “No, I won’t.”

Two determined tears spilled over and ran in silent, hot streams down his face. Malfoy quickly brought a hand up to wipe them away. “Y-yes, you will.”

Harry shook his head. “I promise I won’t.”

“Why do you want to see it?” Malfoy asked with a disgusted laugh. 

“I just need to know.”

Disbelief shone in his eyes as Malfoy glared back at him. “Well, I’m telling you, aren’t I?” He sniffled then dropped his head into his hands. “Isn’t that bloody enough?” Malfoy paused. He opened his mouth as if about to say something, then closed it shut.

“What?” Harry asked.

Malfoy shook his head and spoke quietly. “Maybe I don’t want to look at it. Did you ever think of that, Potter? Did it ever occur to you that maybe looking at the fucking thing makes me want to rip my bloody arm off and fucking vomit?”

“Well-”

“Well?” Malfoy mocked. “Here-you want to see it so bad, arsehole?” He jerked the sleeves of his robes and shirt up to reveal the hideous dark tattoo marring the pale skin of his forearm. Red angry streaks surrounded the flesh of the Mark, making it look infected and Harry swallowed back his nausea at the reality of what he was facing—what was there, was now a part of Malfoy forever, and could never be erased or undone. Malfoy belonged to Voldemort now. He was marked as evil. 

“There,” he snarled, thrusting his arm in Harry’s face. “There, happy? It’s bloody brilliant, isn’t it, Potter? Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Jesus,” Harry breathed.

“Yeah,” Malfoy muttered, his voice shaking. “Jesus. ” 

“How did it happen?” Harry asked, gently, wondering briefly if he was pushing him too far.

Malfoy momentarily stopped breathing. He clenched his eyes shut as if he were in pain and quickly shook his head back and forth. Then his chin began to wobble and he took in sharp breaths through his nose. 

Harry stared at the ruined arm, still obscenely on display for his own curiosity. “Malfoy,” he said.

The blonde head shook back and forth harder and he took in a shuddering breath. “No. I—” he took several more deep breaths. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. 

“So am I.”

Harry shrugged. Clearly even thinking about what had happened was not something Malfoy was able to do. He started to tug the sleeve down on his arm, but Harry reached forward and stopped him, gathering the fabric in his hands.

“Wait.”

Malfoy froze, wrapping clammy fingers around Harry’s hands as if to hold him in place. “Don’t touch me anymore, Potter.” He let out a disgusted breath. “You know what I am now.”

Harry did not let go. “And I said I don’t care.”

Malfoy jerked aggressively out of his grasp. “Potter, I know you’re stupid, but you can’t possibly be that stupid.”

“Well, apparently I am.”

Malfoy looked to his knees and shook his head slightly. “Let’s just get our work done, okay?” He pulled himself to his knees, smoothed his hair out and used the wall to help him stand.

Sighing, Harry did the same. Still, despite Malfoy’s words, Harry felt as though he had made progress. They’d gotten somewhere. They’d admitted that they liked each other. Perhaps if they didn’t put words to it, didn’t solidify if it into something with a name, Harry could just have Malfoy and Malfoy could have Harry in a comforting, but undefined, way.

They didn’t need to be gay. He didn’t need Malfoy to be his “boyfriend,” or his partner or his confidant. Harry just needed Malfoy. And Malfoy needed something and Harry hoped he would be enough. 

“Okay,” Harry conceded. “Just,” he took a deep and calming breath as Malfoy turned slightly from him, wiping his eyes again, clearly embarrassed of his earlier breakdown. “Just don’t run away this time.”

Malfoy stilled and turned back around to face him, biting his lip with a slight frown.

“Please?” Harry asked.

Grey eyes blinked rapidly before squeezing shut and Malfoy braced himself with his hands against the lab table. “Why?”

Harry stepped boldly forward and grasped both of Malfoy’s hands in his own. Malfoy relaxed his grip and Harry gently threaded his fingers through Malfoy’s, causing the blonde to catch his breath and meet his gaze.

“Because. Because I don’t want you to.” Harry gave Malfoy’s fingers a light squeeze. “And because I think it’s worth it.” I think you’re worth it.

Malfoy looked as though he was hypnotized by Harry’s presence and he began to nod along slowly with the words. “O-okay.” He swallowed and his mouth quirked up at the corner. “Okay, fine, Potter. Have it your way. You selfish bastard.”

Harry smiled, finally, a rush of warmth going through him. “Thanks, I will.” And he leaned forward towards a wide-eyed Malfoy and planted a firm kiss on his lips.

Malfoy looked like he was trying to fight down a curious smile, all the while his eyes betraying an immense amount of pain and confusion. He then squeezed Harry’s hands back slightly, then released them, taking a step back. He took another step, then bent down and picked up his list of questions and textbook from the floor. Malfoy reinforced his Semi-Sticking Charm then fixed Harry with a serious look. “Alright, Potter. Enough of this nonsense or Slughorn is going to have kittens.”

Harry nodded and picked up his own parchment and book. “You’re right. That was about the angriest I’ve ever seen him. He was completely livid.”

“Well,” said Malfoy, appearing more calm and in control of himself, “you were being very disrespectful to him in his own room. This isn’t Snape’s Potions class, you know. You can’t just act like a self-righteous shite and expect to escape with a 5-point dock.”

An incredulous snort escaped Harry’s mouth. “There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

“Fine,” Harry said and Malfoy grinned down at his parchment and started again.

….  
….  
….

Draco felt lighter. Part of it could be attributed to the sample of Soporum Serum that Harry and he had taken, but most of it, he knew, was due to Potter.

When Potter had seen Draco’s Dark Mark, Draco had been so confused and embarrassed and absolutely disgusted with himself, knowing that if nothing else had scared Potter off, this mark of purest evil most certainly would have.

But it hadn’t. Potter hadn’t cared, just said he’d wanted Draco. It was as if Potter could see through all of his lies, all of his problems and see him for who he was, or at least see what was still left of who he was. And for some reason, Potter was willing to overlook the rest of it to just have this unnamed something between them.

And for the first time, Draco believed him. He believed that Potter really, truly knew what Draco was going through, understood that he was planning something that was unforgivable, and yet was trying to see past it because he felt that “it” was worth it.

Draco wasn’t sure if he agreed that it would be worth it, but fuck it. He couldn’t keep lying to Potter and he was done lying to himself, as well. He wanted Potter, as Potter, for himself. 

With a heavy sigh, Draco headed up to the Room of Requirement.

….  
….  
….

On Thursday, during Potions, Harry and Malfoy were paired together again. Harry had sat close enough to Malfoy so that their knees were touching, and they were both hyper-aware of the other’s presence for two solid hours.

On Friday, Malfoy brushed up against Harry’s arm in the corridor, causing Harry to stumble into Ron and for Ron to shout at Malfoy to “bugger off.” When Ron had turned away, Malfoy had mouthed to Harry, “Bugger off, Potter,” his mouth twisted into a flirtatious smirk. 

Saturday night found Harry restless and, with thoughts of Malfoy telling him to “bugger off,” Harry pulled out his Marauder’s Map and surveyed it, quickly locating Malfoy’s dot. The boy was pacing the staircase near the old Owlery and Harry guessed that the Slytherin had Prefect’s duty.

Donning his Invisibility Coat, Harry snatched up a box of biscuits from his night table, stuffed them into his robe pocket and snuck out of his dorm.

When he found Malfoy, he stopped abruptly, and his trainers squeaked over the stone floor.

“Excuse me,” Malfoy said, importantly. “Whoever you are, show yourself. This corridor is off limits. It is after hours and you are breaking curfew.”

Harry began to laugh and crept up closer to him.

“I said,” Malfoy repeated, pushing a lock of blonde hair from his face and surveying the space with a frown of concentration. He was clearly trying to figure out where the sound had come from, and was frustrated because he couldn’t see anything.

Harry planted himself directly in front of the Slytherin Prefect and, with one quick movement of the wrist, Harry whipped off his Invisibility Cloak and exclaimed, “Hullo, Malfoy!”

The sudden appearance caused Malfoy’s eyes to widen to the size of dinner plates and he yelped, stumbling back from Harry until his back smacked against the stone walls of the castle. “The fuck is wrong with you, Potter?” Malfoy shrieked, one hand on his throat, grasping at the fabric of his robes.

“Biscuits?” Harry offered, cheerily, pulling the package from his pocket and holding it out toward him.

Malfoy responded with a loud bark of laughter. “Biscuits?” he breathed out, explosively. “Biscuits, you psychotic tit?”

Harry smiled, stepping closer to the boy, giddy with the rush of scaring the shite out of Malfoy and warmth that spread through him at the way Malfoy’s blonde hair fell wildly over his dramatically shocked face. “Mm hmm,” he nodded, pulling one out of the box and holding it out to Malfoy. “Smiling raisin biscuits—Dobby made them.”

The confection grinned up from Harry’s palm and Malfoy, still pressed against the wall, snaked his head forward and peeked down at the biscuit. Then he looked up at Potter and frowned. “You brought me biscuits?”

“Well,” Harry said, raising an eyebrow, “only if you don’t take any points away for catching me out past curfew.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow back at him—a much more effectively raised brow, Harry thought. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Potter. I am a Prefect, after all, which means I was entrusted with the duty of ensuring that all students follow the school rules at all times, biscuits notwithstanding. I’m sure you’ve heard of us, Potter?”

Harry nodded solemnly. “Ah, yes. You’re right, of course.” He shrugged. “Oh well. I’ll just have to give these smiling raising biscuits to Ron, then.”

Malfoy gasped. “Don’t you dare, Potter! Smiling raisin biscuits are to be enjoyed amongst friends, not inhaled by that dolt of a Gyffindor—”

“Hey,” Harry warned, though he had only used the threat of Ron eating the biscuits because he knew it would be enough to shake up Malfoy. “It’s not Ron’s fault you value the rules more than you value biscuits.”

Malfoy made a sound of offense. “I value biscuits, Potter.”

“How much?”

“A lot,” Malfoy said with a serious look. “Nearly as much as I value Chocolate Frogs.”

“Prove it.”

“Make me.”

Harry pushed the biscuit up towards Malfoy’s face, forcefully pressing it into his mouth. Malfoy sputtered in protest and then began to giggle—giggle—and squirm away from Harry, who’d managed to rub biscuit crumbs all over the aristocratic face. “Go on,” Harry chided, grinding the biscuit against Malfoy’s tightly pressed mouth. “Prove it.”

“Get off me!” Malfoy laughed, shoving Harry hard, but managing to snatch the biscuit from his fingers all the same. He now had his wand pointed at Harry with one hand and a smiling raisin biscuit in the other and he was using the back of the sleeve of his biscuit hand to try and wipe the crumbs from his face.

“Give me half,” Harry commanded, nodding toward the biscuit. “And not the half that was in your mouth.”

“I’ll give you whichever half I please,” Malfoy said, snapping the biscuit in two. “And you’ll not complain, seeing as you’ve got a whole package more and, may I remind you, that you were the one who smashed the sodding thing into my face, Potter.”

“Fine, Malfoy. Have it your way.”

Malfoy paused and fixed Harry with a curious stare, hearing his own words from the other night repeated back to him. “Fine,” he said, softly. “I will.” Then Malfoy stepped forward, pressed a biscuit half into Harry’s hand and then pressed a warm kiss on his lips. Tiny biscuit crumbs from Malfoy’s face stuck on Harry’s chin and Harry leaned into the Malfoy, tasting nutmeg, squeezing his own biscuit half into an oblivion and tangling his other hand into the shoulder of Malfoy’s robes.  
….  
….  
….

It wasn’t working. It just wasn’t fucking working!

Draco sunk to his knees in front of the Vanishing Cabinet next to his discarded pile of Arithmancy books and a ravaged package of smiling raisin biscuits from Potter.

He’d thought he was making progress--only days ago he’d sent a Snitch-shaped shampoo lid through the Vanishing Cabinet to its twin cabinet in Borgin and Burke’s and it returned missing only the tip of its fake golden wing. But today, he’d sent through a smiling raisin biscuit and it had come back through as a pile of crumbs.

Fuck.

He’d told the Dark Lord that he was handling it-that he’d complete his task soon and now it looked like he was no further along than he had been in bloody September and it was getting hard to breath and he just needed to sleep, God, he just needed to sleep.

Crabbe and Goyle had offered to help him, insisted, really, but Draco could no longer look his two closest friends in the eye.

Because of him. It was all because of him.

Draco took a shuddering breath and shoved his belongings and biscuits into his school bag. He needed air, he needed to just cool off, something, he couldn’t be in this stifling death-trap of a room anymore.

Draco turned to leave and, when he did, spotted a bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky on the floor. 

“Very nice,” he shouted to the room. “But I don’t actually require alcohol, you sodding, blasted place. How about you mend the bloody Cabinet, as that is what I actually require, instead of sitting there, having a laugh at my expense?”

With a huff, Draco snatched up the bottle, anyway, and stuffed it inside his bag.

Maybe he could go find Potter. Potter could give him more sodding biscuits and make him forget his task for a little while.

But Potter—no. Potter was at Quidditch practice, probably. Draco was somewhat certain that the Gryffindors had the pitch today, since tomorrow was the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff game. Pansy had mentioned something to the other Slytherins about going, probably in an attempt to boost their morale.

Lately, the Slytherin Common Room had had the energy level of a crypt.

Draco left, heading toward the only listening ear that could not hold things against him. 

….  
….  
….

Dizzy, drunk and delirious, Draco weaved an unsteady path out of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom and began heading back to his dorm.

The bathroom trip had proven completely pointless. Draco had cried a bit and called for Myrtle. When Myrtle never came whizzing through her U-bend to Draco’s rescue, he gave up on the ghost and, dejected, wondered if the Room of Requirement had known what was best for him, after all.

He’d drank his way through about half of the bottle of Firewhisky before the tile walls began to wave gently before him and the dripping tap faucets took on the effect of a twinkly, enchanted stream.

Draco hadn’t intended to get completely pissed, had only intended to drink a few sips to quell his fear and anger and despair, but he’d gotten so caught up in the methodical rhythm of drink, swallow, cringe, sniffle, repeat, that he hadn’t realized he’d overdone it until he felt completely numb.

Now, he just wanted to make it back to his dorm without getting in trouble and call it an early night. He cast a Refreshing Charm on his breath then let out an audible laugh at his last thought. Early Night. It was about 6:00 on a Friday.

Stumbling slightly along the stone floor tiles, Draco paused in his journey to flatten his hair and adjust his rumpled robes. He blinked hard and squinted down at his tie, which had become loosened over the course of the day. Using both hands and all of the concentration he could muster, Draco straightened his tie with fumbling fingers, edging closer to the wall and as he did so, bumping off of it occasionally.

He’d just managed to fix it when a whoosh of sheer fabric and a shock of brown hair cut into the molasses-honey glow of his mind, knocking him off-balance and into the wall where he caught himself with two hands.

“Surprised to see me, Malfoy?” Potter asked, excitedly. He was covered in mud and his cheeks and nose were pink and wind-chapped from flying in the icy February chill.

“Potter, heh,” Draco laughed, sheepishly, dragging himself back up the wall into a semblance of standing. “Scared me again, you bastard.”

Potter smiled slightly, then dug around in his pocket before producing a slightly crushed smiling raising biscuit. “Biscuit?”

Draco snorted. “Whatsit with you and sodding biscuits, Potter?” He swallowed hard, noting that the honey-molasses thickness had spread from his head to his tongue and forming words felt like wading through water upstream. 

“Dobby said you like them.”

Grinning, Draco reached forward and snatched the biscuit sloppily out of Potter’s hand. He was happy to see Potter, wanted to kiss his wind-chapped lips, get lost in his safe warmth but didn’t want Potter to know he’d fucked up again. Why couldn’t Potter have just found him an hour ago when he wasn’t yet a stumbling mess?

Well, then, he’d been a crying mess.

Because of the Vanishing Cabinet and the fucking biscuit that wouldn’t just come through the damn thing in one piece because the unsightly rubbish box wouldn’t work.

“Thanks—thank you very, very much, Potter. Although, I daresay I’ve seen enough biscuits today that’ll las’ me a bloody lifetime. But. Y’know. ‘S ok, cause you were thinking of me which was really quite nice of you, actually.” Draco drew his eyebrows together in concentration, as he worked to over-pronounce every word that tumbled from his mouth. “Um, nice of you. Thanks very much for thinking of me Potter, even with all of your Quidditch practices. Practicing.”

Potter frowned slightly, but nodded. “Well, yeah,” he said.

“Certainly. ’S very noble of you, Potter. To do something nice like give biscuits to a Death Eater. There’s a special place in Heaven for wizards like you.” Draco poked Potter lightly on the chest and noted how cold his Quidditch practice clothing was. He began to trail his finger up towards Potter’s temptingly exposed neck.

Potter slowly wrapped cold fingers around Draco’s hand and stopped the upward progression of his exploration. Draco’s grin slid off his face when he saw the funny look Potter was giving him.

“What?” Draco asked.

Potter gave him a hard look. “Are you okay?”

Growing dizzier by the minute, Draco wrapped his arms around Potter and laid his head on the boy’s shoulder, relishing the cool sharpness against his flushed cheek. “Yeah. ‘M fine Potter. Fan—bloody—tastic.” 

Potter wrapped tentative arms around Draco’s back and said nothing.

“Things are really going my way,” Draco continued, unnecessarily. “Couldn’ be better, in fact. Couldn’ be bloody bl—bloody better, by far.”

This time, Potter pulled back slightly and held Draco’s pliant form away from him at arm’s length. They stared at each other for a moment and Draco resisted the urge to squint his vision into focus. Instead, he widened his eyes slightly and tried to project an air of normalcy.

Then he hiccuped.

Potter shook his head with an incredulous look on his face. “No. No, you aren’t fine, Malfoy.”

Draco let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. “I’m okay, Potter. Really.”

“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

Draco shrugged, slightly embarrassed. He was too tired to keep up the façade with Potter. The Gryffindor had him figured out, anyway. Plus, he’d promised not to lie to him.

“Why?” Potter asked, concern written all over his face self-righteous, muddy face.

Draco snorted inelegantly. “A very wise someone thought that I required it, I suppose.”

“And do you?”

“Do I require it, Potter? When my life is on the line and I’m just fucking everything up and Goyle and Crabbe won’t even look me in the eye anymore because they’re too bloody stupid to make their own decisions? Because I never told them that maybe I’m not right all of the time and that they shouldn’t just do what they think I would fucking do because sometimes I’m wrong? No—all the time I’m wrong? Potter—I, hey, where are we going?”

Potter was dragging Draco back down the hallway in the direction from which he had just come. Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom appeared through his hazy vision and he stumbled into it as Potter stepped in behind him, locking the door and casting a Silencing Charm on the room.

“Why, why’re we?” Draco had clearly drank too much too fast and could feel the Firewhisky taking an exceptional stronghold over him and wished Potter would have just left him alone so he could pass out pathetically in his dorm room and not embarrass himself in front of the one idiot who kept coming around to try and cheer him up with bloody biscuits that he would in turn donate to the Dark Lord’s cause and—

“What have you done with my biscuits?”

“No! That’s not what I meant, I. Wait, I said that out loud?”

“Just,” Potter pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “sit down, Malfoy.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and sunk down to the floor in a messy, undignified heap. “I don’t feel well,” he mumbled, clutching his stomach.

Shockingly, Potter dropped to the floor beside him and wrapped his arms around Draco. It was the most wonderful, comfortable feeling and, without meaning to, Draco relaxed back into Potter’s arms and laid his head on his chest and breathed in and out heavily, willing the bad feelings to just settle and dissipate and go away.

Potter began to stroke Draco’s hair and it didn’t even seem strange, it just felt right, so right, here—safe in Potter’s arms—that Draco felt like he could just tell him anything.

“Was singing,” Draco said, finally, hypnotized by the gentle rise and fall of Potter’s chest. “Was singing on Christmas Eve and my mum came.”

Potter said nothing, just continued to run soothing hands through Draco’s hair.

“Took me home. I wasn’t supposed to go home. Was supposed to be here—watching out for you, or something. Like I could do anything to help at that point, anyway.” Draco laughed, bitterly. He paused for a moment, then squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would make the memory any easier to relive. “Goyle was at the Manor. And Crabbe. Nott. Some others. And Him. And Snape, the bastard.”

Draco traced his finger over one of the buttons on Potter’s shirtsleeves and continued. “Wasn’t even a Christmas tree. The Manor was all set up for ini-initiation-one great, big Christmas surprise. I didn’t have a choice, Potter, you have to believe me, he’d just Crucio her again and I couldn’t . . . But-Goyle, he did. His mum wasn’t going to make him get th’ blasted Mark but he thought it’s what I would’ve wanted him to do and by then it was too late, he was there, he had to do it, you see?”

Potter froze for a moment. “Crabbe and Goyle took the Dark Mark?” he asked in a tight voice.

Draco sat up suddenly, ignoring the nauseating head rush. “No, you blithering dumbfuck. They didn’t take it—they were given it.” He swallowed and wondered briefly if he should be telling Potter all of this, but he was just so tired . . .

And, oh God, tears were prickling behind his eyes and he simply had no more control or energy left to stem their flow. “For me. To help me.” His voice broke. “Those fucking idiots, Potter. I would have told them not to but I fucking forgot,” he wailed. “And how am I ‘sposed to face them now, Potter? How am I supposed to face them?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. Draco peered up at him and noted his vacant expression. Something about it angered Draco and he shoved Potter in the chest. “Hey!” Potter protested.

“Well, I don’t know, either!” Draco shouted, not entirely sure why he was. “And why are you even here, you sanctimonious sod? Don’t you see what I fucking do to everyone? I ruin lives Potter. Fuck, I poisoned you, for fuck’s sake!”

Potter looked as though he had been slapped, but Draco simply couldn’t stop the hurtful and pained words that poured from his mouth.

“Yeah, there. You happy? I said it, Potter. I. Poisoned. You.” Draco gestured to himself and then to Potter, before waving his hands lazily around the expanse of the room. “Excellent company you’re keeping these days, Saint Potty. Truly, stand-up citizens.”

“Stop it, Malfoy.” Potter sounded angry, but Draco was too lost in his own dark thoughts for it to matter. “If you want to talk about that, do it when you haven’t swallowed a bottle of whiskey.”

Draco laughed without mirth. “See? That’s just it, Potter. I can’t. I can’t fucking look you in the eye and apologize for that, fucking coward that I am. But it’s what you want to hear so take it now while it’s being offered.”

“That’s not what I want,” Potter replied in a quiet voice and Draco missed his arms and his biscuits and smiles but Potter needed to hear this. Draco knew Potter wanted an apology and with Draco drunk and raving, this was the only way he was going to get it.

“What do you want then, Potter? To know what it felt like to see a person that made you feel something—made you feel safe— suffering, maybe dying, because of your own stupid mistake? What else? Oh, right. You wanted to know how sorry I am. To know that I have never felt sorrier in my life than I did—than I did that night. Sorry for being alive, sorry for being what I am, which is a fucking mo—” he hiccuped, “monster, by the way. Sorry that it was you and not me,” he gulped, “that it was you and not me in that fucking coma.”

“Malfoy, just calm down.”

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it, Potter?” Draco snapped, accusingly. “To hear me say that?” Potter glared at him. “Just fucking say so. I know it is.”

“Fine! Fine, yes, Malfoy. Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

“See,” Draco mumbled, shoulders slumping in defeat. His eyelids were drooping, too, and he was too exhausted to fight it. Hearing Potter acknowledge that he wanted Draco’s apology did not leave Draco feeling as fulfilled as he thought it would and, in fact, just made him hurt more. “See.”

“What?”

“See, Potter?” Draco slurred, pointing listlessly at the floor. “I’ve hurt you more now. You shouldn’ have made me say it.” He swallowed, thickly. “Don’t wanna hurt you--hurt anyone--don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.”

“Malfoy . . .”

“‘M tired of hurting. So,” he let out a weak little sob. “I’m just so tired, Potter. I’m so tired.” Draco felt himself sliding slowly toward the dank floor of the bathroom when Potter scooted forward, gathered him in his arms again and held him until the bathroom faded and the world faded and Draco gave in to the welcoming call of sleep.


	20. Chapter 20

“Mother-what are you doing here?” Draco asked, tripping over himself to keep up with her hasty departure from the church. The red and greens and gauzy golden decorations flitted by in a blur and Draco could sense that something huge was about to happen. He leaned forward to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, but she turned quickly away and it was all he could do to stay on his own two, wobbling feet.

“Oh,” Narcissa said with a casual flip of her elegant hand, “well, Maggs informed me.”

“Did she?” Draco grumbled. Maggs seemed to be informing a lot of people these days.

“And anyway, darling,” she said, her voice deceptively calm and in stark contrast to her quick pace, “she’s just doing what I’ve asked her do.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Draco asked. “Spy on me?”

Narcissa slowed her pace as she exited the church, stepping down the stairs onto the very ground where Draco had taught Dobby to spell his name. She turned sharply to Draco. All traces of forced humor were removed from her pale face and she pulled him by the wrist onto a side street. “Draco,” she said once she’d reached a darkened alley, her voice serious and strained. “Listen to me.”

Draco nodded. The buzz from singing was quickly crashing around him. “I’m listening. What’s wrong?”

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes tightly. “The Dark Lord—” Her voice broke and she swallowed. “The Dark Lord has requested your presence this evening, Draco.”

Cold horror began to creep up Draco’s spine.

“He’s at the Manor.”

“What?” Draco asked in disbelief.

“He’s—” She wrung her hands together then shook her head. “Since you left for Hogwarts, dear, in September. The Dark Lord has—”

“What?!”

“Draco-hush!” Narcissa hissed, her eyes wild. “I know I’ve not raised you an ignorant fool. I’m sure you understand what this means.” She paused. “For both of us.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. The Dark Lord had been at the Manor since the beginning of the school year? Draco’s mum had been left alone as a prisoner with that monster all year . . .

“Now, pull yourself together. He’s waiting for you. And there are others.”

Draco wanted to protest, wanted to shake his mother and demand more time—he needed more time, but, instead, he straightened his posture like a proper Malfoy. “Yes, Mother.”

“Draco, tonight you should feel,” Narcissa paused for just the briefest of moments and Draco noticed the strain in her voice, “honored. The Dark Lord is to make you one of his own.”

The blood rushed from Draco’s face and he felt colder than even the December snow should have made him feel. “I’m to be Marked?”

Narcissa said nothing else. She closed her eyes and wrapped her icy fingers around Draco’s, squeezing once, tightly, before she Apparated them to the Manor.

The world went black.

The Drawing Room opened around him. Once upon a time, its ornate fixtures and coffered ceilings were the epitome of untouchable regality, a place for men and brandy and the special company house-elves who wore the banana-peel bow-ties. It was not a place for children like Draco.

How fitting then, Draco thought, that he and his childhood friends would be made into unwilling adults in the room that now glowered in torchlight amidst the semi-circle of faces both familiar and foreboding.

But why now? Draco wanted to scream. Why me? Why those lumps Crabbe and Goyle for Merlin’s sakes?

He’d been told that receiving the Dark Mark was an honor, one bestowed upon those who had pleased the Dark Lord in their service to Him. As adults.

Draco hadn’t even made any progress on his task. If he were to be honest with himself, he was failing miserably. Why would the Dark Lord want to Mark him?

In the center of the room stood Bellatrix, a look of unmitigated glee warping her deceptively soft features. She was speaking in hushed tones with another Death Eater—a fat woman with drooping cheeks. Draco’s mother stepped off to the side to stand beside Professor Snape who returned Draco’s undoubtedly searching face with an impassive nod.

Beside Draco stood Goyle and to Goyle’s right was Crabbe. There were others he recognized but none he expected to see less.

“Goyle,” Draco hissed, barely moving his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

Goyle gave an obvious look to the left and to the right (clearly, he was trying to be sly) then whispered back, “I tried to tell you, Draco.”

Draco’s stomach plummeted. The Fizzing Whizbees box. Goyle had tried to warn Draco and ask him what to do, but Draco had been too caught up in other things to give his friend the time of day. The one time when Goyle had actually sought Draco’s advice, he hadn’t been there for him. And now, here they were.

“God, Goyle,” Draco murmured, his heart beating erratically.

“Happy Christmas, Draco,” Crabbe offered, leaning forward slightly. He gave Draco a tiny wave and Draco’s heart clenched painfully as Crabbe’s broomstick cufflinks glinted in the torchlight. Even though Draco knew Crabbe didn’t want this, the boy had still worn his special cufflinks for strength.

Draco had to look away. He didn’t trust himself to speak. If there was any time in the world that Draco needed to be in control of his emotions, it was right now.

Then the Dark Lord came and explained why a bunch of Hogwarts students would be honored with the Dark Mark: Harry Potter had been poisoned by one of their guests of honor and with the Boy Who Lived out of the way, there was no better time to Initiate a team of stunned students and send them out as watchdogs and decoys while real Death Eaters staged a mass break-out from Azkaban.

And, Draco—dear Draco—would be receiving both a Dark Mark and his father’s freedom for Christmas this year.

….  
….  
….

Harry’s feet were beginning to go numb under the weight of Malfoy’s upper body. The Slytherin had passed out on his lap nearly an hour ago and Harry just didn’t have the heart to wake him up to his own misery and, likely, a nasty hangover.

Leaning against the tile wall of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, Harry marveled at the fact that Malfoy had felt safe enough with Harry to fall asleep in his arms and to tell him what he had about receiving the Dark Mark.

The situation was awful. It was just so disgustingly awful. All Harry wanted to do was sneak out of the bathroom and find Dumbledore and ask him for help. Dumbledore would be able to help, wouldn’t he? Dumbledore could protect Malfoy and his friends and their families, too. Dumbledore could do anything. 

Harry wished he knew more about Dark Marks. He knew that they hurt. He knew that touching it hurt Malfoy. What he didn’t know was what would happen to Malfoy if he defected now? Would Voldemort torture him through the Mark? The only person Harry could think of that had turned from Voldemort and lived was Snape, and that was only because Voldemort was too stupid to realize that Snape was really on Dumbledore’s side.

If he was really on Dumbledore’s side . . . 

But if the Dark Mark connection was anything like the connection that Harry had with Voldemort, then couldn’t Voldemort just read the minds of his Death Eaters? That seemed like a possibility and certainly like something Voldemort would do to keep an eye on his followers.

In which case, Voldemort would be able to see Harry, here, comforting Malfoy. Oh God. Malfoy was right. If Voldemort saw memories of Harry in Malfoy’s mind or, fuck, saw memories of Malfoy in Harry’s mind-either one of them could be killed. It would make Malfoy a target, too.

Now Harry was beginning to get it. Being tired of the way things were was not a justifiable reason for recklessness.

Harry needed to learn Occlumency. Malfoy, too, needed to learn Occlumency. This couldn’t wait--they needed to learn it now. Voldemort could be looking into their minds right now.

“Malfoy,” Harry whispered urgently, shaking the blonde.

Malfoy moaned softly and clutched at his forearm.

“Malfoy, wake up. Get up.”

“Wha’ happened?” Malfoy slurred in his sleep. “How’d I get here?”

“Come on,” Harry shook him harder.

“Ah,” Malfoy winced. “It hurts, everything hurts.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he was talking in his sleep or referring to his undoubtedly hungover state. “Well, what did you expect?”

“A Firebolt XS.”

“Huh?”

“Stocking full of sweets.”

 

“Malfoy?”

“You jus’ watched. Never warned me, never. Bastard knew.”

Harry sighed. Still dreaming, then. He wrapped his arms around Malfoy’s torso and yanked him upright. “Come on, Malfoy—it’s supper time.”

Malfoy yawned and Harry got a whiff of his stale, liquor breath. Two, blood-shot, grey eyes opened and blinked stickily. Malfoy squinted in a child-like frown, as if he were mad at the concept of being awake, which, Harry reasoned, he probably was.

“Come on, Malfoy,” Harry said, again. “We’ve got to go.”

Malfoy huffed then crawled off of Harry’s lap toward the sink. Pulling himself to his feet with the assistance of the porcelain, he stumbled slightly and caught himself. “Oh, shit,” he muttered.

“Careful,” said Harry, climbing to his feet and feeling his legs prickle with the sensation of blood-flow. “You okay?”

Malfoy was still squinting, now at his reflection, as if confused by what he found. “What-what’s wrong? Why’m I—” he rubbed his eyes and looked at Harry. “Why are we here? Why do I—” he frowned at the sink. “Why do I feel . . . weird?”

Harry tried not to laugh as Malfoy looked back to him with honest, questioning eyes. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Malfoy shook his head. “I feel like I’ve taken a Bludger to the head. Merlin—what day is it? Still today?”

This time, Harry laughed a little. He understood the confusion that accompanied a nap—he could only imagine Malfoy’s confusion after having literally passed out. “You’re fine. It’s still today—it’s Friday. Around 7 o’clock at night.”

“Gah,” Malfoy stuck his tongue out like a cat coughing up hairballs. “Ack.” He then turned the faucet on to full-blast and began splashing water into his mouth and onto his face in a very un-Malfoyish fashion.

“Malfoy,” Harry said. “Um, do you know what Occlumency is?”

Malfoy’s hair was plastered to his forehead and his face was dripping wet. “Huh?”

“Well,” Harry said, taking a step toward him. “There’s this thing called Occlumency—”

“I know what Occlumency is, Potter,” Malfoy rasped, aiming a drying spell at his face and hair with his wand. The result left him looking like an electrocuted chicken, but Harry was hesitant to tell him so. Instead, Harry gave him an affectionate pat on the head from which Malfoy quickly recoiled.

“Really?”

“I happen to be an expert,” Malfoy added pompously, the effect ruined by his bedraggled appearance.

“An expert?” Harry asked in surprise. “Are you serious?”

Malfoy leaned on his forearms against the porcelain of the sink and spoke to the drain. “Why would I make that up?”

Harry shrugged. 

“It isn’t hard,” Malfoy added. “You just clear your mind—”

Harry let out an exasperated snort. He’d heard that unhelpful advice more times than he could count. The wording itself left him feeling a bit ill.

“What?” Malfoy asked.

“I can’t clear my mind, apparently.”

Malfoy gave him a funny look. “Have you even tried?”

“Yes!” Harry shot back, defensively.

“Fine,” Malfoy said, raising two hands in the air. “Whatever you say, Potter.”

Harry let out a small “humph,” and approached the sink, reaching his arms forward to peel the Slytherin off of its edge.

Malfoy let himself be led by Harry out of the bathroom and into the corridor, when he suddenly seemed to come into himself and shrugged out of Harry’s grasp, stumbling only slightly.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine. I need some bloody coffee or something.”

“House-elves don’t typically serve coffee at supper.”

Malfoy grumbled in response. He went to push open the doors of the Great Hall when Harry stopped him by grabbing his wrist.

“What?” Malfoy snapped.

“Can you teach me?”

“Teach you what?”

Harry recoiled slightly at the smell of Malfoy’s stale whisky-nap breath.

“Oh, shut up,” Malfoy said, but he barely opened his mouth when he said it, leaning just slightly away from Harry as if trying to hide his bad breath.

“Occlumency,” Harry said.

Malfoy smirked. “You want me to teach you Occlumency?”

“Yes,” Harry said, firmly. 

“Let me get this straight. You’re giving me permission to perform Legilimency on you?” Harry could hear the barely suppressed glee in his voice and fought to roll his eyes.

“Yes.”

Malfoy smiled a feral grin. “Okay, Potter.”

….  
….  
….

Dear Dudley,

Harry paused for a moment and then scratched it out, starting again.

Dudley

Or should he be a git and write “Big D?” Harry laughed to himself and decided to stick with his cousin’s given name.

Dudley,

I’m fine. How are you?

I have to ask, why did you write to me? I’m sure you’ve got loads of caring friends and pretty girls you can write to. Why pick me as your pen pal? Have you taken a sudden interest in “freak schools?”

Well, thanks for the eraser, I guess, but at Hogwarts we cast Vanishing Spells to erase things. Try it sometime. Who knows? You might have some magical blood after all.

Harry paused and grinned to himself, debating his next sentence. Guessing Dudley would burn the entire letter in fear, Harry continued:

It’s called “Evanesco.” You just say that word and point something like a pencil or your Smeltings Stick at a mistake and it will erase it, just like that.

Harry chuckled, picturing a fumbling Dudley making an arse of himself.

Anyway, I’ve had an interesting year. 

He briefly considered telling Dudley that he had been poisoned, but figured his relatives would like that too much. Harry tried to think of something else to tell him, but realized that he’d rather Dudley didn’t know anything about him at all.

For Christmas I got a potion called Felix Felicis. They call it Liquid Luck and when you drink it, you get completely lucky and everything goes your way. If you drink too much, though, it could kill you.

I’d sent you some Felix Felicis—

Yeah, right.

—but it’s really valuable and I don’t think you deserve it, since you’ve never been nice to me. So I’m sending you a Sneakascope. It spins when someone is being dishonest. I imagine it will never stop spinning if it’s around you.

Happy New Year, Dudley.

Good for you to be serious about school, even when Uncle Vernon could get you a job at the shop. I’ll bet Aunt Petunia is very proud of you for not cheating.

Anyway, take care. Enjoy your Sneakascope. Don’t let Aunt Petunia or Uncle Vernon see it . . . they might take away your Nintendo.

Harry

….  
….  
….

“Harry, where do you keep disappearing off to?” Ron asked, flipping a page of his Martin Miggs Collector’s Edition Christmas Special Volume 2 comic that he got from Bill for Christmas. He shifted on his bed and turned to face Harry.

“What do you mean?” asked Harry, pushing aside the quill tip he’d been curling into the edges of his Potions book. Inspired by Malfoy, he’d been working on a miniature version of a flipbook—a two-page story of a girl jumping rope that moved when Harry moved the top page that was wrapped over his quill. The faster Harry moved the rolled up paper, the faster the girl jumped rope. Harry had watched Samantha Jones do this to her notebook every day for a year in primary school. She’d added tiny embellishments as she grew more skilled. Harry, however, had embellished way too much. It also looked like the girl transformed into a beefy, curly-lashed man whenever she skipped the rope.

“What do I mean?” Ron asked in a disbelieving voice. “You keep running off and taking your Invisibility Cloak and the Map with you.”

“Oh.” Harry paused. “No, I don’t.”

“Mate, yes, you do!”

“Well, not really.”

“Bloody hell, Harry. This whole year you’ve been acting like you’re keeping some big secret from me.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Harry!”

“Ron, I have not!”

Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry and stared at him. Harry stared back, holding his ground. He may have confessed his confused sexuality, but there was no way Harry was going to admit he’d been sneaking off to bring biscuits to Draco Malfoy. Finally, Ron turned back to his comic book.

“Whatever, Harry.”

….  
….  
….

Goyle’s forehead was full of wrinkles as he squinted at his school bag, trying to re-thread the leather strap through the tiny holes. He’d pulled the strap out an hour ago to demonstrate something to Millicent and managed to fill the strap with hundreds of tiny knots and fray the edges so that it no longer fit back into the holes.

The edges of the thin strap were matted with spit. A sheen of sweat had beaded around Goyle’s temples.

Draco had been watching Goyle for a while now without offering assistance. Goyle’s fumbling fingers had bought Draco time for a conversation that he really didn’t want to have. He’d told himself that Crabbe and Goyle were avoiding him, but, deep down, he knew that he was the one who had been avoiding them.

Draco didn’t need their help, not really, but he believed that one of the reasons they had taken the Mark was to help Draco with his task. Crabbe and Goyle still didn’t know what his task was—no one knew, really, though Pansy and Potter were close to guessing—but Draco needed to allow them to do something, so they would at least feel like they hadn’t sold their souls for no reason.

Fingering the potion bottle in his hands nervously, Draco cleared his throat.

Goyle swore and reached up a handful of fat fingers to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Goyle,” Draco said.

“Hm,” Goyle grunted, pulling on a stubborn knot with his teeth.

“I’d like to request your assistance with something.”

Goyle stopped what he was doing and looked up to meet Draco’s gaze with a startled expression.

Draco knew he and Goyle were the only ones in the dorm, but just in case Zabini or Nott had placed surveillance on the room, Draco lowered his voice and cast a Silencing Spell.

“You’re asking for my help?” Goyle asked, sounding baffled. “Now?”

Draco nodded. “I need you and Crabbe.”

“You do?” 

“Yes,” Draco nodded again. “As lookouts.”

“Sure, Draco,” Goyle’s head bobbed up and down, eagerly. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever you need.”

Draco glanced at the bottle of green, viscous liquid in his hand and hesitated briefly before handing it over to Goyle.

“What’s this?” Goyle asked.

“It’s Polyjuice.”

….  
….  
….

Malfoy had told Harry that he would meet him that night in the Chapel for Occlumency lessons. This, however, did not explain why Malfoy was heading in the opposite direction of the rest of the student body making its way to the Quidditch Pitch for the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match.

Despite the fact that the Gryffindor team was waiting for him to run quick drills before the match, Harry, dressed in his full Quidditch gear get-up, followed the blonde head that was sneaking away from the crowd into a rarely-used corridor.

Harry darted past students and around banners and ridiculous House Hats of lions and eagles and, oddly enough, a few elephants, and slipped into the corridor through which Malfoy and two girls were quickly making their way.

“Hey!” Harry yelled. Malfoy tensed before increasing his pace. One of the girls glanced back at Harry and scowled before peering up at Malfoy.

Harry jogged down the corridor, his Quidditch boots echoing in the vast space, until he was ahead of Malfoy, then reached out his arms to block his path. “Hey,” Harry said, again. “Where are you going?”

Malfoy reached up a hand and pushed one of Harry’s arms out of the way. “Shove off, Potter. Where I’m going is none of your business.”

“But—”

“Shouldn’t you be on the Pitch? You wouldn’t want to disappoint your hordes of adoring fans.”

“Yeah,” piped one of the girls. She had brown hair and kept tugging on the armpits of her robes.

Harry paused at the strange girl’s interruption and gave her a once over. She was wearing Slytherin robes, but they looked more like boy’s robes with trousers shrunk down to a girl’s size. He’d never seen her before. She wasn’t particularly bad-looking, but there was something odd about her. About both girls, really. Harry was certain he’d never seen them before or heard Malfoy mention them. 

A short spark of jealousy ran through Harry, but he shoved it aside. “Who’re you, anyway?” Harry snapped at the girl.

She widened her eyes, then opened and closed her mouth as if trying to say something.

“Matilda,” the other girl—a blonde—cut in. She reached around Malfoy to back-swat the brunette on the arm.

“Er-yeah,” said the brunette. “I’m Matilda. And she’s—”

“Bridget,” Malfoy grumbled, throwing an irritated glance at the brunette. “And if you’re done making introductions, Potter, we’ll be on our way.”

“Why aren’t you going to the game?” Harry asked, trying to hide the tone of disappointment in his voice. He had kind of hoped that Malfoy would watch him play. 

Matilda tugged on the front of her robes and pulled on the hem of her skirt with a grunt. Bridget reached forward and back-swatted her again. Matilda looked up from her robes, then scowled and shoved Bridget back. “Knock it off,” she hissed.

“You knock it off, dumbfuck.”

“Why don’t you both knock it off?” Malfoy said through clenched teeth. Bridget and Matilda shrugged uncomfortably.

“Sorry, Draco.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and looked back at Harry. “As you can see, Potter, I am otherwise engaged with two students in dire need of peer mediation.”

“Mediation?” Harry scoffed.

“Yeah, Potter,” Malfoy said, his eyes lighting up. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Hogwarts Peer Mentor Program?”

“No . . .” Harry was quite sure he’d never heard of such a thing.

“Oh,” said Malfoy with an easy shrug. “Well, that’s because it’s just for upper-year Slytherins. Mostly members of the Inquisitorial Squad. Professor Snape didn’t think it was fair that we lost our leadership roles just because Professor Umbridge is no longer with us, so he created the Mentor Program for peer leaders, such as myself, to mentor and mediate younger Slytherins.”

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered slightly as if registering what he had just said. Then he smiled, looking satisfied. 

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“You’ve never heard of the Hogwarts’ Helping Hands Program?” Malfoy asked, turning away from Harry and starting to walk again. “You should pay more attention, Potter,” he called over his shoulder. “But I guess you’re too busy paying attention to yourself.”

Malfoy quickly turned a corner and the two girls trotted to keep up with him. “Good luck on the pitch, Potter. You’ll need it.”

The sound of clunking heels shuffled away.

“Arsehole,” Harry grumbled to himself. He turned around and headed back toward the excited, shouting voices that echoed down the corridor.

….  
….  
….

Having Crabbe and Goyle stand watch outside of the Room of Requirement actually motivated Draco to focus on the task at hand and, miraculously, he made some progress.

Smith’s Law of Magical Molecular Transfer, when applied to Samuel Slick’s Theory of Magical Object Remote Apparation, gave Draco the base he needed for balancing the reparation spells and he was able to send through 7 out of 10 objects without a hitch.

Several hours later, Draco left the Room of Requirement with his two most loyal friends feeling like a leaden weight had been removed from his chest. There was an extra skip in his step as he accompanied Crabbe and Goyle back to the Slytherin Common Room. Relief-inspired endorphins rushed his system and he was in the mood to celebrate.

Feeling reckless, Draco dropped off his task-related materials and male-again friends, before turning around and heading toward the Chapel.

When he arrived at the room, he was surprised to see that it had been returned to its former state. Apparently Boot hadn’t lied when he’d said that he had all of the spells recorded. Potter was already sitting cross-legged on a fiery orange carpet in the center of the room, looking glum. His elbows dug into his knees and his chin was resting in his hands giving off the impression of a five-year-old who’d just been punished.

“Hey, Potter,” Draco greeted, louder than he’d intended. His chipper voice was amplified by the room and Draco jumped at the sound before slamming the door shut behind him.

Potter barely reacted, murmuring some form of a greeting into his palm.

“What’s your problem, Potty?” Draco asked, dropping to the floor in front of Potter.

“Don’t call me that.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“We lost.”

Not sure what to say, Draco shrugged uncomfortably. “Mmm.” Was Potter expecting Draco’s sympathy? The Gryffindor had won more than enough games, in Draco’s opinion. It was only fair that someone else catch the Snitch for a change--even if it was a Hufflepuff.

“So,” Potter said, his tone confrontational, “what? You don’t play Quidditch anymore, so you don’t watch the games?”

“I told you, Potter, I was—”

“Save it, Malfoy.”

“What’s your problem?” Draco snapped. “It’s not like I’d be rooting for Gryffindor, anyway.”

“No, of course not.”

Potter was obviously a sore loser. Perhaps he just hadn’t had enough practice losing, so Draco told him so.

“Go fuck yourself. You’re one to talk.”

“Fine, Potty” he snapped, climbing to his feet. Potter’s pissy mood was catching and Draco, who’d been feeling good for the first time in a long time, wanted none of it. “Consider this the last time I help you with anything.”

For some reason, Draco had had a deluded fantasy that Potter would share in his excitement over the Vanishing Cabinet, which made no sense since Potter would be the last person he would ever tell about such a thing. Feeling inexplicably disappointed, Draco turned to leave.

“Wait.”

“Don’t boss me around.”

“Please, wait.”

Draco paused and turned back to face Potter. “What?”

Potter stared at the orange carpet on the floor. “I’m sorry.”

“Really,” Draco said in a disbelieving voice. 

Potter pulled himself to his feet with exhausted effort. “No, really. Come back. I want to do this. I’m ready.” He frowned the determined look of someone ready to fight. “Come on.”

“Not like that, you aren’t,” muttered Draco. “You need to relax and get out of your little stint or we’ll both be wasting our time.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll relax.” Potter dropped back to the ground and resumed his petulant position in one surprisingly fluid motion.

Draco could fully see that Potter was not relaxed and decided that now would be the perfect moment to teach Potter a lesson. “Fine,” Draco agreed. He moved back toward Potter and knelt on the floor in front of him. “So the incantation is—”

“I know,” Potter snapped.

Potter really was a sore loser. Taken aback, Draco blinked, before letting his features slide into a smirk. “If you say so, Potter.” And before Potter had a chance to raise any walls or shields, Draco cast the spell. “Legilimens.”

When Draco said he’d be able to teach Potter Occlumency, he’d mostly been bluffing. Sure, he could Occlude his own mind, but he’d never actually performed Legilimency; he’d only had it performed on him by his psychotic aunt and her Master and when they’d done it, it had hurt like hell. They’d torn through his mind, diving into his most sensitive memories, revealing everything Draco had unwittingly brought to the forefront of his mind in subconscious fear of its revelation.

Instantly, Draco felt a sense of both power and fascination. He was in Potter’s mind—Harry Potter’s mind—with access to his most private thoughts.

Not knowing what he was doing, Draco passively watched the images that flitted by his vision in various shades of color, some more vibrant than others. He assumed that the more brilliant the color of the memory, the more important the memory was to Potter. 

Draco selected at random, focusing in on one colorful scene and mentally diving into the picture.

It felt similar to when Legilimency was used on him, except now Draco felt fully in control of what was a completely foreign environment. He could sense panic and exhaustion and struggle and knew that this was Potter’s ridiculously weak attempt at fighting Draco out of his mind.

Images contorted and shifted as Draco was sucked forward into them until the shapes morphed into people and a room.

The emotions that he felt shifted, too, melting into the emotions that Potter must have felt at the time of the memory. This overwhelming sense stunned Draco. He had no idea that someone performing Legilimency could feel one’s emotions this strongly. Upon recalling what the Dark Lord had done to his own mind, Draco felt even more violated and it occurred to him that he should feel a bit more guilty about what he was doing to Potter.

“Get over here, boy!” A fat man with a mustache shouted. Draco watched as a small Harry Potter was grabbed by the ear and yanked into a kitchen setting. The small boy stumbled into the room and crashed into the kitchen table. Draco felt pain, and watched as Potter rubbed his forehead where he had hit it, before backing away from the large and rather disgusting man in what felt like terror.

“What did I do, Uncle Vernon?” Potter asked. His voice sounded higher in pitch than Draco was used to. He’d forgotten that Potter was once a kid, was once eleven years old.

“It’s what you didn’t do, you ungrateful little freak. Did you think these dishes were going to wash themselves, boy?”

Potter felt confused. “But, I washed the dishes after dinner.”

The man called Uncle Vernon looked ready to explode, his face red with boiling rage. “Are you getting smart with me, boy?”

“No.”

The man reached forward and grabbed Potter by the ear again before throwing his small body against the kitchen sink. Inside the sink were two bowls filled with what looked like melted ice cream and spoons.

“But, Dudley and Piers must have just—”

“DON’T YOU tell me what goes on in my own house—”

“But—!”

Draco, frankly, was beginning to feel ill. That could have been Potter’s own reaction to the memory, but it didn’t really matter. Draco wanted out. He didn’t want to know what happened next to Potter. He didn’t want to see it.

And then, as a result of asking not to witness the memory, Draco was pulled into that very memory.

Potter was shoved from behind into a cupboard. A door locked behind him and he landed on his hands and knees on some hard form that seemed to be a sort of bed for House-Elves or something, except Potter was raised by Muggles. They wouldn’t have House-Elves, and, judging by the mundane décor of the house, it was doubtful that they’d had servants of any kind.

An answering thought formed and suddenly Draco just knew. Potter was the servant.

Draco tried to swim back out of the memory, back into the space where many thoughts and pictures had swirled, but it didn’t work the way he had thought it would. The harder he tried to get out of the memory, the more he seemed to be sucked into Potter’s one thought pattern.

Panicking, Draco fought against the direction of the thoughts, but that only seemed to increase the suffocating pull of the next memory and he suddenly realized how out of control he truly he was. His stupid arrogance had him floating through the mind of Harry Potter, someone who was not skilled enough in Occlumency to push him out and Draco was not skilled enough in Legilimency to pull out.

A new scene formed and pain erupted in his chest as he watched Potter take a beating from a group of kids on a playground.

“Dudley,” a woman’s voice scolded. She seemed like some sort of school-teacher, and was faintly reminiscent of McGonagall, except that she didn’t seem nearly as sharp. “That’s enough.”

“But!” The fat boy sputtered. “But he stole my lunch!”

Potter was bleeding from the mouth. It was difficult for him to breath. In his small fist was a tightly clutched orange.

“Again, Mr. Potter?” the teacher asked. She pulled on the fat boy and he climbed clumsily off of Potter’s stomach.

“But, I—” Potter began.

“He ate all his!” Dudley cried. “And then he tried to eat mine!”

“That’s not true!” Potter said, sniffling and holding the orange closely to his chest. 

“Hand it over, young man,” the teacher said. She held her palm out to Potter for the orange.

Draco could feel Potter’s hunger and distress. He knew Potter hadn’t stolen that fat pig’s lunch.

Potter looked ready to cry, but he relinquished the orange just the same. The teacher took it and handed it to Dudley before walking away.

Dudley fixed Potter with a triumphant smile. Then he dropped the orange on the ground and stomped on it. The fruit burst out of the skin and mixed with dirt and grass. The boy smeared the orange goo with the heel of his shoe into the yard, laughing. Potter glared up at him. “I changed my mind,” the boy said, cruelly. “You can have it.” He then spit on the mashed fruit and walked away.

A dangerous amount of rage welled up around Draco and he feared what Potter would do to that fat arse Muggle. To Draco’s full disappointment, however, Potter did nothing. He just scowled at the ground and thought about the unfairness of it all.

Clearly, Potter had had some kind of screwed up childhood that he didn’t want Draco to know about. All of this was making Draco rethink his opinion of the hero of the Wizarding World. Surely, Potter had enjoyed fame and fortune outside of Hogwarts. Right?

In answer to that question, Draco found himself surrounded by night sky in a cemetery. Potter looked older—this was definitely the Potter he knew. His hair was longer and he was dressed in Gryffindor competition gear. Something told Draco that this was the night of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. 

While Potter had been giving off strong feelings in the previous memories, none had flooded Draco so fully as these. He actually thought he might vomit, if it were possible. A green light flashed suddenly and Draco heard a thump. He turned in the direction of the sound and stumbled back in horror. The body of Cedric Diggory in his yellow Hufflepuff Champion outfit was heaped on the ground before him, dead.

Draco pulled away, desperately trying to escape this memory. He knew what it held. He’d heard stories of the night, hell, he’d told his own stories about the night, but now, faced with the reality unfolding before him, he couldn’t bear it anymore. Not with Cedric lying so close to him on the ground. Merlin, the boy had seemed so much older to Draco in 4th year, but now he could see how young Cedric Diggory was and it made his stomach turn.

Draco followed Potter’s gaze away from Cedric toward the small, filthy man holding the wand that was responsible for the death of a child. It was the man his father called Wormtail who always cowered at the hem of the Dark Lord’s robes. 

Draco had no idea that the sniveling rat had murdered Diggory. He’d never viewed the man as a serious threat, but now he could see how wrong he’d been.

Potter’s distress levels had kicked into high gear as he desperately tried to push Draco out of his mind. “I don’t want to see it, either” Draco tried to tell Potter. “I don’t want to know what happens.”

The memory moved forward. Potter was tied to a gravestone, struggling, fearing for his life, and the sound of Apparation popped all around. The familiar and terrifying black robes and skull masks twisted into view. It was the same get-up Draco had shamefully hidden in the deepest recesses of his school trunk.

“Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius.” The Dark Lord was speaking and Draco forgot all about trying to leave Potter’s mind, focusing instead on the obvious shock of white-blond hair that tumbled out of the hood of one of the Death Eaters’ cloaks. 

Draco almost rolled his eyes. 

Why hadn’t his father at least tied his hair back? Had he even worn his mask at the Department of Mysteries or was he as obviously exposed as he was now? No wonder he’d been caught.

“Of course my Lord, of course . . . you are merciful, thank you,” Draco’s father responded, and his familiar drawl registered deep inside of Draco. It was the same cool voice that used to recite “The Wizard and the Hopping Pot” to Draco as a child.

For one moment, it didn’t matter why Lucius was there. He was still Draco’s father and it had been too long since Draco had heard his voice, the timbre so like his own, calling memories deep within Draco’s soul. Lucius may have escaped Azkaban, but he certainly wasn’t hiding out at Malfoy Manor.

Merlin, he missed his father . . .

. . . which made Draco more certain than ever that he did not want to see what the man was about to do for the Dark Lord. The thought of his father’s unappreciated servitude angered Draco.

“Master we crave to know . . .we beg you to tell us . . . how you have achieved this . . . this miracle . . . how you managed to return to us . . .”

And then the Dark Lord began to tell the tale of his return to his Death Eaters and Draco stopped fighting to escape the memory, instead entranced by the smooth, sibilant tones of his Master and his unbelievable story. Potter’s blood had brought him back to life.

The Dark Lord tried to manipulate Potter into joining him, but Potter refused. 

What Potter did next was nothing short of incredible. 

Draco felt Potter’s pain as the Dark Lord Crucioed him. He gasped in shock as Potter threw off the Imperius Curse. Then Potter dueled the Dark Lord and won. He won.

Crippled by the Cruciatus Curse, battling the most powerful wizard of all time, surrounded by armed Death Eaters, Potter dueled the Dark Lord and won.

And suddenly Draco felt himself ease out of the stronghold of the spell and into the Chapel where his own overwhelming feelings were mirrored on the horror-struck face of the boy in front of him.

“Bastard!” Potter gasped, cradling his head in his hands and breathing heavily on the orange carpet.

“Liar!” Draco choked back. 

“What?” they both yelled and then resumed yelling over one another.

“You dueled the Dark Lord? You won? You lied to me!” Draco raved. 

“How could you do that to me? Why didn’t you stop? I trusted you, Goddammit. You knew I didn’t want you to see those—”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” demanded Draco, climbing angrily to his feet. “You dueled the Dark Lord and he ran off—”

“It was in The Quibbler—!”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, no one believes that rubbish—”

Potter grabbed his bag and made for the door. “Stay the hell away from me, Malfoy—”

“You threw off the Imperius Curse!” Draco called, trotting after him to keep up, desperate for answers.

“Those were my private thoughts—”

“You lied about everything!”

Potter finally stopped and whirled around to face Draco at the door of the Chapel. His face was red and his eyes were blazing. “No. I. Didn’t!”

“You did so!”

“I never lied about anything! You were just too misinformed to see the truth that was staring you in the face.”

“You did—you lied!” Deep down, Draco knew Potter was right. Draco had been lied to, but it hadn’t been by Potter. It’d been by everyone else. Everyone else who wasn’t one foot away from him and yelling in his face and being the perfect target for his misguided anger.

“How does it feel to know your father is a groveling, sniveling little rat?” Potter asked.

Draco’s heart rate sped up and he found it hard to swallow. Humiliation and hurt spread heat through his esophagus. “How dare you!”

“You just saw it for yourself. Helped yourself right to it, in fact. I hope you enjoyed the truth—”

“Well, if you hadn’t lied—”

“What lies?” Potter exploded. “What lies did I tell you, Malfoy?”

“How about, oh, let’s see. Dudley?”

Potter looked away quickly. “I never lied about Dudley,” he said.

“Once upon a time there was a poor little non-magical elf who worked as a slave for a fat-arse named Prince Dudley,” Draco recited in a mocking voice.

“Just shut up, Malfoy.”

“You see? You did lie.”

“It wasn’t any of your bloody business,” Potter murmured.

Draco crossed his arms, feeling self-righteous. “Really. Then why did you let everyone believe you were some great worshipped hero when all along you were nothing but a pathetic little punching bag for a family of Muggles?”

The second that the vicious words crossed his lips, Draco knew he had gone too far. Potter stepped back as if he’d been slapped.

Draco waited uneasily for his reply. 

“That’s why,” Potter said. Then he turned the handle of the door and walked out.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Draco called, weakly. His voice echoed through the corridor after Potter, but this time Potter didn’t turn around.

“You still need to learn Occlumency,” he added. Potter ignored him and turned the corner. Determined not to let Potter get away this time, Draco rolled his eyes then began running down the corridor after him.

“Potter—stop!” Draco demanded when he caught up to him.

Potter kept walking.

“Oh, come on, Potter, don’t be like that. I only meant—”

Potter stopped then and turned around. He was breathing heavily and his eyes were wild. “You violated me,” he said in a trembling voice. “You violated me completely. How could you do that to me?”

At a loss for words, Draco merely shook his head.

“Stay away from me,” Potter said. “And I know it’s pathetic to beg, but please, please, if you have any shred of moral decency don’t tell anyone what you saw.” Potter’s eyes were distraught and pleading. 

“Of course not,” Draco murmured. 

Potter gave a curt nod, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Why didn’t you just leave my head? You knew I wanted you out. You knew I didn’t want you to see those things. I thought you were tying to help me . . . I didn’t realize you were—”

“Potter, look,” Draco said. He couldn’t believe he was about to say this. “I actually.” He cleared his throat. “Um. That is to say . . . I didn’t really know what I was doing. Not—not exactly, that is.”

Potter just stared at him.

“What I mean by that is . . . I’ve never performed Legilimency.” Draco shrugged. “Not really.”

“What?” Potter’s voice was edged with a dangerous tone.

Draco winced. “I tried to stop, but I couldn’t?”

“You tried to stop,” Potter repeated, slowly, “but you couldn’t.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Potter closed his eyes then, as if summoning the strength to keep from throttling Draco. 

Draco took this as his cue to leave. “Well, see you, Potter.” Without waiting for a response, Draco turned the other way down the corridor and ran. Expecting Potter to follow him, he looked back over his shoulder. Potter’s eyes were still closed and one arm was braced against the stone wall as he breathed heavily, in and out.  
….  
….  
….

“Oof!” Draco smacked into something heavy and warm. The acrid stench of preserved flobberworms and jasmine filled his nostrils.

“Draco,” a voice hissed and two hands firmly grasped his shoulders. “Curfew was an hour ago. What are you doing out here?”

Draco quickly registered that he was face to face with Professor Snape and concluded that this was the man who deserved his ire. Snape had lied to him. Well, Snape had kept the truth from Draco, which was as good as lying, according to Pansy.

“Potter dueled the Dark Lord and lived?” Draco demanded. “They actually dueled. And no one ever told me.”

“Draco . . .”

“Just answer the question!”

Snape looked up to the ceiling then fixed Draco with an annoyingly patient look. “To what are you referring?”

“On the night of the Tri-Wizard Tournament—when the Dark Lord returned—he tried to kill Potter and he failed—”

“Do you know what you’re saying?” Snape hissed in an angry voice. “Bite your tongue before you make a claim you will truly regret.”

“We’ve picked the losing side, haven’t we?” Draco shook his head and laughed with disbelief. “We have, haven’t we? Merlin’s arse . . . ”

“Stop this foolishness at once and get back to your dormitory before I am forced to remove points from my own House.”

“You must know this. You were there, for Merlin’s sake. You saw a fourteen year old duel the Dark Lord and win—how is even that possible?”

“Have you lost your mind, Draco? Do not speak ill of the Dark Lord. Enough of this, at once!”

“I’ve picked the losing side,” Draco murmured in a soft, lilting tone. “We’re all going to die. Potter’s going to kill us all—”

“Silencio!” Snape snarled, then quickly cast a glance around the seemingly empty corridors. “Follow me to my office. Now.”

Snape’s words left no room for argument, not that Draco could say anything if he tried. Sulking behind his professor, Draco followed the waving patterns of black fabric that moved like liquid as Snape walked purposefully toward the dungeons.

When they reached Snape’s office, Draco helped himself into to a chair—the nicer one that had a cloak lying upon it—and watched as Snape locked the door and adjusted the wards. Draco began to tap his fingertips on the arms of the chair in a manner that was certain to irritate his professor. No Silencing Spell could silence Draco Malfoy.

Snape approached Draco with a scowl. He reached forward and yanked the cloak out from behind Draco’s back and cast an unnecessary Wrinkle-Smoothing Charm on it just to make a point. Snape carried the cloak over to his own chair and laid it over the crushed red velvet back before sitting in the seat himself.

“Finite.” Snape raised an eyebrow at Draco and waited for him to say something.

Draco continued to tap out a rhythm on the wooden chair arms with the backs of his fingernails; the clacking the only sound heard in the stifling, musty room.

Draco still felt reckless, as he had earlier, and was still pleased with his success over the cabinet but he had to wonder, what was the bloody point of it all? Draco was plotting to kill Dumbledore and for what? Potter didn’t need Dumbledore to win. Potter had held his own at fourteen years old. He had thrown off the Imperius Curse cast on him by the most powerful wizard of all time. 

“We’re going to lose,” Draco said finally.

“To whom are you referring?”

“We. Us. The Death Eaters. Our side.” He shouldn’t be saying this—not to Snape, the snake, but really, they didn’t stand a chance. Draco could picture Potter’s face in that graveyard, clear as day. He’d worn that same “fierce look of determination” that Draco had ridiculed Potter for wearing on the Quidditch Pitch or when defending his many charity cases. But Draco now knew it wasn’t just a look. Potter was strong. Way stronger than Draco had ever given him credit for. If Draco had been given all the facts two years ago and hadn’t been bound by familial obligations, he would have cast his lot with Potter’s side in an instant.

As it was, he was stuck. And he was almost certainly going to die. And his side was going to lose.

“Our side?” Snape mused. “I didn’t realize we were on the same side.”

Draco frowned.

“If I recall, you implied several weeks ago that the only side I was on was my own.” Snape pointed his wand at a blue, ornate teapot and cast a Heating Charm. He then lifted the pot and poured two cups of tea, one for Draco and one for himself.

Draco took the proffered cup and sipped it slowly, the warm tea soothing his scattered energy. “And which side are you on?” Draco implored.

Snape smirked. “Why, my own side, of course. Any true Slytherin would be.”

Draco frowned slightly, but nodded. Snape had a way of saying things that no one else would ever be able to get away with. When questioned, he could unfailingly justify every word that left his mouth. It was an enviable quality. “Mmm.”

“And whose side are you on, Draco?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but what came out instead of his intended answer was “I don’t know.”

Snape widened his eyes at that. So did Draco. 

I don’t know?

What a stupid, dangerous answer.

“Really?” Snape ran a finger around the rim of his teacup, thoughtfully. “Have you made any progress on your task?”

“Yes,” Draco felt relieved to say. “I have. So you can go back and tell everyone that the Cabinet is about 70% effective, up from 20%, which I’d say is a vast improvement.” Draco wished he hadn’t added that last part. The Dark Lord was sure to not be pleased with anything less than 100%.

Snape, however, looked impressed. “Admirable, Draco. Though not entirely surprising. You are very gifted.”

Trying not to look pleased with the compliment, Draco took another sip of tea. 

“What do you plan to do with Dumbledore?” Snape asked, smoothly.

Draco panicked, grasping for words that would sound confident and sure but, again, landed on “I don’t know.”

A glint of something unnamable flashed through Snape’s eyes. “What don’t you know?”

“If I can kill Dumbledore.” Draco widened his eyes at his response. “Shit.” He looked down at his teacup, then up at the smirking man before him. Draco immediately flung the cup across the room where it hit with a shatter and spilled to the floor. “Shit!”

“Draco—”

“You bastard!” Draco shouted, scrambling out of his chair and hurrying toward the door. “You drugged me!”

“Sit down.”

When Draco reached the door, he was unsurprised to find it locked from the inside. Panic began to rise through him, choking him. 

“If your thoughts are pure and you’ve nothing to hide then there’s no reason to fear the questions, Draco.”

“But—!” he spluttered. “There are secrets! Things—I can’t. I can’t tell. Shit!”

“About the task?” Snape asked in a calm voice.

“Yy—“ Draco tried. “’Ts—n.” He reached up a hand and grabbed his throat and covered his mouth with the other. “N-no.”

Snape nodded and gestured to the chair in which Draco had previously just been sitting. “Please sit, Draco. You will not leave this room until our conversation is over. Have a seat like a civilized human being.”

Draco tentatively made his way back to chair, glaring at Snape all the while. He couldn’t mention Potter. He couldn’t discuss defecting. Snape would tell the Dark Lord and Draco and his parents would be destroyed.

Sinking into the chair, Draco felt like a man on trial, which he most certainly was, and contemplated covering his ears. He knew there were ways to get around Veritaserum by choosing the correct responses and misleading the questioner. Unfortunately, Draco had no experience or practice in doing so and he was about to be cross-examined by an expert.

“Tea?” Snape asked with a smirk. Draco only glared. “No?” He shrugged and set the teapot down. “So, what are you hiding?” Snape mused, tapping his long, thin fingertips against his chin.

“My Death Eater robes are in the trunk at the foot of my bed. My diary is inside my pillow. I took one of Blaise’s Quidditch magazines and drew hearts around every photo of Victor Krum and hid it in Theo’s drawer to frame him. I have Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans in my pants drawer so Goyle won’t find them. I planted a fake box of all the human waste-flavored ones on my nightstand as a decoy. I stole Firewhisky from Winky the House-Elf’s stash. Terry Boot—”

Snape held up a hand. “Enough. Let me rephrase that question before you get yourself expelled.” He sighed in exasperation. “And I’ll have a talk with Dumbledore tomorrow about keeping his House-Elves on a tighter leash.”

Draco shifted uneasily. Veritaserum was a terrible feeling. The last question had made Draco’s brain feel like it was misfiring in a hundred different directions, throwing answers at him that fought their way out of his mouth in no particular order, though he had somehow managed to dodge every Task and Potter-related response, having quickly cast through his mind for other answers. Luckily for Draco, he had many hidden things.

“Are you responsible for cursing Katie Bell?”

“Yes. Fuck. Yes.” Two balled up fists in his lap were the only things currently grounding Draco to reality. He stared at the dark little hole between his thumb and forefinger and imagined disappearing into it.

“Are you responsible for poisoning Harry Potter at Professor Slughorn’s Christmas Party?”

“Yes.”

“Was the intended recipient of that poison Albus Dumbledore?”

“Yes.”

“Did you want to poison Potter?”

“No.”

“Do you believe Potter’s death would lead to victory on behalf of the Death Eaters?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want Potter to die?”

“No.” Draco covered his face with his hands. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t fight the questions. They were too direct and Snape seemed to know exactly which questions to ask.

“Why not?”

Draco tried, anyway. “I believe life is a basic human right.” Interesting, he thought. Also, well played.

Snape clucked his tongue in amusement. “Cute.”

“Why are you doing this to me?” Draco asked, desperately.

“I took an Unbreakable Vow to protect you,” Snape said. “I believe it is my right to know precisely where you stand.”

“Have I given you reason to doubt my loyalty?”

Snape smirked. “Yes.”

“I’m trying to be loyal!” Draco shouted.

“To whom?”

“To myself! To my parents!”

“Then what is standing in your way?”

“Potter!”

And there it was. Out in the open. There was no way Snape was going to let this drop.

“Has he been following you?”

Or maybe . . . “Yes.”

“Trying to figure out what you are up to?”

“Yes. See!” Draco declared, hopefully.

“Did you see him tonight?”

Shite. He winced. “Yes.”

“Were you with him right before you ran into me?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Terry Boot’s room. The Chapel.”

Snape looked taken aback. Clearly, he had never head of the Chapel before, either. Well, it had been nice having one up on Snape while it had lasted. That feeling was rapidly ending in its entirety.

“What were you doing there?”

Draco kept his eyes averted from Snape’s. “T-t-” He swallowed hard, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. Draco was a traitor. He hadn’t even really switched sides but when Snape heard this, Draco would be thought of as a traitor. Why hadn’t he seriously considered the possibility of Veritaserum? He wished he had never agreed to teach Potter Occlumency. Sure, Draco had thought it would be fun to have full access to Potter’s mind, but even he knew that his reasons for offering to teach Potter weren’t so pure as that. If one could call recreational mind invasion “pure.”

The Dark Lord couldn’t know about Potter. About Draco kissing Potter. About Potter being Potter. And them being whatever they were. 

“T-teaching. T-teaching him.” 

Draco’s reply was met with a frown. “You were teaching Potter something?” Snape asked. “Teaching him what?”

Magic, he tried to say, but instead “M-Occlumency” slipped out.

“Occlumency?” Snape asked in alarm. “Potter can’t learn Occlumency!”

“Yes, I know,” Draco grumbled, remembering the disaster of the past hour.

“You can’t teach Occlumency—you aren’t a trained Legilimens.”

“I know.”

Snape smacked his hands on the table causing Draco to jump. “You know? Did you also ‘know’ that digging through a foreign mind could have resulted in permanent brain damage to the both of you? Did you ‘know’ that you could have become paralyzed in a life-long state of mind transfer?”

Draco shook his head. He hadn’t. And the prospect was frightening. He wondered how close they had been to either of those outcomes and decided that they were probably not too far off.

“So what the hell were you doing, Draco?”

“Finding out that we picked the losing side, that’s what.”

Snape sat back slowly in his chair and folded his hands across the dull, mahogany desk. “I take it you witnessed Potter’s memory of the events on the evening of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.”

Draco nodded.

“What else did you see in Potter’s mind?”

“A fat kid, an orange, Diggory and melted ice cream.”

Snape sighed. “Draco, why did you agree to teach Potter?”

“So I could see his memories.”

“Is that the only reason?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“He asked me.”

“Why?”

“Because he was scared.”

“Of what?” Snape looked like he was barely holding onto his patience. Draco, however, remained stubborn and resolved to make this process as difficult as possible, even if he knew Snape would manage to get all of the information out of him, eventually.

“The Dark Lord.”

“He was scared of the Dark Lord doing what?”

“Seeing into his mind.”

“Seeing what, Draco?”

“Seeing me.” Draco stopped and closed his eyes, squeezing tightly onto the edge of the desk until his knuckles were white. “That’s enough questions,” he choked. “Please, Professor. It’s enough. Don’t ask me anything more. Please. Please, I’ll do whatever you want.”

Draco slowly opened his eyes and met Snape’s. Snape was giving him a considering look. “Anything I want?”

Draco grit his teeth. “If you stop with the Potter questions, yeah.”

“I have one more question for you Draco, and then I’ll stop.”

“Fine.”

“Did you want to take the Dark Mark, yes or no?”

“No.” Draco shook his head slowly, hating the words coming out of his mouth, hating the lack of control and knowing what it meant for him and for his family. He’d have to leave Hogwarts tonight, grab his mother and flee the country.

“Why did you agree to kill Dumbledore?”

“Because the Dark Lord threatened my family—you said one more question!”

“Follow ups,” Snape explained, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “If you were ensured of your own and your parents’ safety, would you betray the Dark Lord and fight on Potter’s side?”

Draco stared pointedly at the floor, his mind, body and emotions numb as the ultimate word of betrayal passed his lips. “Yes.”

“So you no longer believe in bloody purity?”

“Of course I do,” Draco snapped. “It just isn’t as important as I once thought it was. Not important enough for people die for it. For me to murder some stupid old man for it.”

“People will die, Draco,” Snape said, solemnly. “It is a war, whether you or I or Potter or anyone else wishes any differently.”

“I know,” Draco whispered.

“And now I’m giving you a choice. Though you said you would do anything,” he raised an eyebrow, “to stop me questioning you about Potter,” Draco winced, “I am giving you a choice. It may be your last and only chance to have a choice in this matter.” He paused. “Switch sides.”

Draco widened his eyes. Had he heard him correctly? “Excuse me?”

“Switch sides. You are obviously unhappy in your current situation.”

“What?” Draco asked. “Are you mad? You really are trying to get me killed, aren’t you?”

“I’m not mad and I’ve taken an Unbreakable Vow to protect you. Join Potter’s side.”

Scowling, Draco reached for his left sleeve and yanked open the button, pushing the fabric up over his elbow. “Do you remember this, Professor?” he asked, thrusting the Dark Mark towards his teacher. “Maybe you weren’t paying attention since it wasn’t all that important to you, but I’m sort of Marked now!”

Snape unbuttoned his own shirtsleeve and rolled it up, revealing his equally hideous Dark Mark. “What is your point?”

“It’s too late!”

Snape’s eyes flashed with anger. “Too late is the moment when you’ve murdered someone and can’t take it back! It is when someone you care about ends up dead because of your own foolish arrogance. I know what ‘too late’ is, Draco. Consider yourself lucky that you still do not. But if you continue to turn a blind eye to reality then, believe me, you will know what it is and then you will truly find yourself despairing.”

Draco gaped. Snape was trying to tell him something, but it was so unbelievable that Draco couldn’t wrap his mind around it. “What are you saying, Professor? Whose side are you on?”

Snape sneered and rolled his eyes. “My own.”

“You’re on Potter’s side!” Draco accused, weakly, pointing a shaking finger at Professor Snape. “I should tell the Dark Lord! You’re one to sit here and question me!”

“Go right ahead, Draco,” said Snape, spreading out his arms, palms up. “Your Occlumency shields are not nearly as strong as you like to think they are. You should be more worried about yourself.”

“But, you’ve made the Unbreakable Vow . . . Dumbledore has to die . . . ”

“Yes, he does. Do you want to kill him?”

“No.”

“Then switch sides. The Order of the Phoenix will protect you and your family.”

Draco couldn’t believe his ears. “You-you are a spy!”

“I’m also very skilled at Obliviation, so if you choose to stay with the Dark Lord, we can both continue on as though this conversation never happened. I will say nothing to him in respect for your family and also in staying within the bounds of the Unbreakable Vow. Revealing your true allegiances would not fall into the realm of protection.”

It sounded unbelievable to Draco—and too good to be true. Draco was certain there was a catch. “I don’t trust you.”

“Draco, I drank from the same teapot as you.”

Draco glanced at the tea in front of Snape, then the teapot, then at the damp shards of porcelain on the other side of the room. “Oh.”

“Well?”

“Would I be a spy, too?”

“So far, I think that would be your best option.”

Draco shook his head slightly. “Isn’t that more dangerous?”

“When death is the ultimate consequence of any action you choose, how can one measure danger?”

Draco shrugged.

“The next best thing would be to measure your own values and choose from there.”

“Can I think about it?”

“You have one minute.”

“One minute!” Draco protested, unable to fathom anything less than a day for the enormity of this decision. “That’s not enough time.”

“Then I suggest you think fast.” Snape said, leaning back in his chair as thought waiting patiently for Draco’s response.

“When did you switch sides?” Draco asked.

“After I found myself responsible for the death of someone I cared a great deal about. Do not ask me who or I will Obliviate you immediately and put an end to this entire offer.”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t get it! Dumbledore still must die. And I have to be the one to do it.”

Snape’s face softened. “You or I will cast the final spell, yes. But ultimately, Dumbledore’s death will be of his own volition.”

Draco groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I don’t understand. Please, just give me a day to think about it all.”

“No, Draco.” Snape said. “You did not have a day to think about getting your Dark Mark. You do not have a day for this. Take it at face value. Loathe as I am to sound like Dumbledore, my advice to you is to follow your heart.”

Draco swallowed hard. “And my parents?”

Professor Snape sighed. “Your parents are adults. They can make their own decisions.”

“But my mother—!”

“Would be offered protection and a place to hide throughout the war. If she chooses to take it.” Snape stood up and clasped his hands behind his back, crossing the room slowly from his desk to his fireplace.

“Do you think she would?”

“I think she might,” Snape said. “For you.”

Draco agreed. “My father wouldn’t. He might stop her.”

Snape peered over his shoulder at Draco. “That would be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, obviously, Professor,” snapped Draco. Needing to be on eye level with his captor, Draco got out of his seat, too. “And you’re telling me the Order of the Phoenix has some place to keep them safe?”

Draco’s question was met with a nod. He laughed in response. “Right. They might leave Mother in peace, but I’d love to Dumbledore’s little pets living side by side with my father.”

A warning look flashed across Snape’s eyes.

Draco smirked. “Sorry, Professor. Forgot I was speaking to Dumbledore’s most loyal pet of all.”

In an instant, Snape had Draco pinned up against the wall. His gleaming black eyes bore into Draco’s over his nose. “When you are in my presence,” Snape hissed, “you will not disrespect me and you will not ever disrespect Albus Dumbledore. Do I make myself clear?”

Draco swallowed. “Yes, Professor.” Snape released Draco’s robes and took a calm step back as Draco brushed out the imaginary wrinkles.

“Your parents will be offered sanctuary, but if they turn it down it will be of no one’s fault but their own. Do you understand that?”

“No.” Shit. The Veritaserum.

Draco’s Head of House rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated breath. “You don’t understand that?”

“Not if switching sides is the catalyst that leads to their death.”

“Draco,” Snape said, turning fully from the fireplace to face him. “These events were set into motion long before you were even born. And forgive me if this sounds callous, but you are of very little importance to the Dark Lord.”

“He chose me—”

“As punishment!” Snape shouted. “For Lucius! Don’t you understand that? Whether or not you can complete the Dark Lord’s task is of little importance to him. Do you truly feel that this assignment, with the threat of your parents death upon failure, is some sort of a reward?”

Draco knew it wasn’t. And finally, it seemed, someone was telling him the truth. 

“Wake up to reality, Draco! The Dark Lord held Lucius responsible for what happened at the Department of Mysteries. You cannot and never will redeem the Malfoy name in the eyes of the Death Eaters. You were given this task so that you would fail and the Dark Lord would have an excuse to be rid of the Malfoys once and for all. And the sooner your father realizes that, the better for all of us,” Snape added, looking at the fireplace as he said it. His tone made Draco think that this was not the first time Snape had had this conversation about—or perhaps with—Lucius Malfoy.

“Do you think Potter stands a chance of winning?” Draco asked.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think so,” Snape said wearily. “Have you made you decision?”

“Get my mother. Tonight. Have Dumbledore’s minions, or whatever they are, get her tonight and bring her to this Order place,” Draco said. “Get her first and we’ll deal with Father later. Do NOT tell my father where she is.”

Snape smirked slightly. “I’m taking orders from a child now?”

Draco pounded a fist against the door. “This isn’t funny! The Dark Lord’s been living there, you know! Watching her all the time!”

Draco held Snape’s gaze, irritated by his placating look. “Yes, thank you, Draco. I know. Believe it or not, I am actually more informed on these matters than you.”

Of course Snape knew the Dark Lord had been living there. He knew and hadn’t seen fit to tell Draco. “Anything else you’re keeping from me?” Draco snapped.

“There are plenty of things I’m keeping from you.” Snape pulled a vial from his pocket, took a sip and offered it to Draco. Draco reached for the vial, but Snape pulled it back, as if teasing a child. “Your word.”

Draco couldn’t believe what he was doing, but he had to admit, it felt good to have Snape on his side once more. Despite this year’s evidence to the contrary, the man made Draco feel safe and supported and, as embarrassing as it was to admit, Draco craved that. “You have my word. I am defecting to Potter’s side. Jesus.” Draco paused at the incredulity of the past hour. “I will do whatever you or this Order need me to do in exchange for sanctuary for my family.”

“And if something were to happen to your family, would you still support the Order of the Phoenix?”

Draco’s hand trembled and he stared at it. “Is that likely?” he asked in a soft voice.

Snape looked at him thoughtfully. “I will do everything in my power to protect you and your family, Draco. Despite my allegiances, Narcissa and Lucius are still very important to me. I care for your family a great deal, though I do not agree with your father’s current choices.” He paused. “I’m sure you can understand caring for an individual who is, for all intents and purposes, an enemy?”

Yes. Draco understood all too well. And the glint in Snape’s eye made Draco suspicious that Snape knew this, too. “I do,” Draco bit back. “Now, hand it over.”

Snape passed him the antidote. Draco gave the vial a skeptical look before drinking a dose and was inordinately relieved to feel the pressure on his brain dissipate as he resumed control of his tongue once more. 

“She’ll be moved as quickly as possible,” Snape amended. “I do need to discuss this with the Headmaster first. In the meantime, tell no one. Tomorrow the three of us shall meet and we will proceed from there.”

“But—”

“Rushing this process could result in her death!”

Draco paled and looked away. Snape cursed under his breath.

“Draco. I do apologize.” 

Draco shrugged. “It’s fine.” He refastened the button on his sleeve and tugged on it, primly.

“Tomorrow,” Snape promised. He made quick work of his wand and unlocked the door for Draco. 

Draco nodded and took a deep breath. “Yeah, okay. Tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Draco.”

“Good night, Professor.”

Draco turned to leave when Professor Snape stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Turning back around, Draco was surprised to find Snape smiling a genuine, if exhausted, smile. “Draco.”

“Professor?”

“I have never been more proud of you than I am right now.”

Taken aback, Draco’s eyes widened. Warmth washed over him at the praise. “Um.” He blinked. “Thank you.”

Snape nodded and Draco turned to leave.

“Also,” Snape’s cold drawl stopped him again. Draco turned around to face his Professor. “That will be twenty points from Slytherin for roaming the hallways after curfew.”

“Hey!”

“I don’t give special treatment to Potter and I won’t give it to you,” Snape said with a smirk that was entirely too gleeful. 

“You always did before,” grumbled Draco.

Snape shrugged. “Goodnight, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Hmph.”


	21. Chapter 21

An ebony colored owl soared through the Great Hall and dropped a lumpy package in front of Harry's breakfast. It was stamped and addressed with a British Postal code. Finishing a swallow of sugared tea, Harry carefully tore open the envelope. A small object was wrapped in crinkled notebook paper. Upon unfolding the notebook paper, Harry found that the wrapping was actually a letter from Dudley. He smoothed it out and read.

Thanks a lot Harry.

That stupid thing you gave me got me in trouble with Dad. And you know what? He did take away my Nintendo! I don't think he even knew what a sneakyscope was but he said it was giving him a buggering headache with all its wurling. You better not have done some freaky magic on him that made him take away my Nintendo but I bet you did didnt you.

Anyway, they had a Take Your Son To Work Day and I opened your letter there and that stupid top kept spinning and wurling every time Dad tried to make a sale. Some person would ask him a question and the minute he opened his mouth that thing went off.

Anyway, it made my head hurt and I didn't know how to turn it off? There wasn't a switch or a button but it doesn't matter cause Dad threw it out and punished me.

At least I have my playstation.

Anyway, Mum's mad at me, too, thanks to you. She heard me trying your erasing trick with my Smeltings Stick on my school progress report. She said one freak was enough in our family. Then she talked to Dad about taking me to a head doctor but he said he'd just punish you when you come home for being a bad influence and freeloder.

Anyway, I shouldn't even be warning you after what you did to me.

Then Mum saw that I failed Respect Class and grounded me for two whole days!

Anyway, I never thought I'd say this but you better come back. When your here I never get in trouble.

I sent you something else even though you dont deserve it. Mrs. Pinter felt all the post for lumps to make sure we did. We had to make coalaj of baby pictures for Child Develupmant class and I saw this in Mum's box with the photos inside. Is it you? It looks kind of like you but without that stupid scar on your face. The four-eyed bloke looks like you to so I figured that was your dad or something.

Anyway, I should only mail the photo because of what you did, but the clasp on the necklace is broken anyway so its just junk.

Hope mum doesn't get mad. But so what? Cuz I'm mad at her cuz she yelled at me!

Well, write back. And send me something that's not broken.

Oh yeah, I got a girlfriend so there and I do write to her. She goes to Halbrook and she's pretty but im not telling her name.

You never answered my question about being a poof so I guess that means you are!

Oh. And Mrs. Pinter wanted me to practise recepie writing for some reason. So here. Cook this. Even though I think its one of your recepies anyway.

Baked Eggs with Kippers

Ingrediants

350 g of kipper filets

200 ML single cream

salt and pepper

4 eggs

Direction

Preheat oven to 160 C.

Put kippers on micro-proofed plate cook high 3 or 4 minute til Piping.

Drain fish and remove skins and bones

Mash fish with ¾ of the cream.

Season Too Taste.

Butter 4 ramekins and make a well with the fish

Crack a egg in the middle of Fish.

Season And Spoon Remaining Cream On Eggs

Bake it for 10 minutes.

Serve with hot toast finger

Yeilds 4. Enjoy

Dudley

Harry set the letter aside, tightly grasping in his hand a thick, brass locket. The charm was shaped like a divided orb and each side was semi-sphere of glass surrounded by thin, crossing strips of metal. The clasp was, indeed, broken and the locket lay stretched on its hinges, orbs spread wide as if yawning. Despite the object lying open in his palm, Harry hesitated to look inside, instead savoring the excitement at the prospect of possessing a treasure that may have once belonged to his parents.

Holding his breath and preparing for disappointment, Harry carefully turned the object over in his hands. As it did so, it seemed to heat slightly from within.

Nestled in the tiny divots of the locket and held in place by four prongs each was a black and white photo and a tiny slip of parchment. At first glance, the photo appeared to be an average Muggle photo as the image it held was stationary.

On the right side of the locket was a photo of his Mum and Dad, looking much as they had in the Mirror of Erised. Harry's mother was smiling a small, half smile and her eyes were crinkled in the corners giving her a bit of a mischievous appearance. Harry's father stood beside her, grinning down through his spectacles at the baby he had balanced in his arms. The baby, whom Harry deduced was himself, had a comically down-turned face and was looking at the camera in deep distress. Over his head hovered his mother's hand and in her hand was a tiny, pointed wizard hat with an H on it that Harry very clearly did not want to wear. Her other hand was outstretched toward Harry. Harry had tightly wrapped his fist around her finger where her palm was flattened against his chest.

The left side of the locket held a folded slip of parchment. Harry guessed it was a note, but couldn't bring himself to look away from the photo on the right.

Since coming to Hogwarts, Harry had seen a fair share of pictures of his parents. Hagrid's generous gift in his first year had much to do with that, but other photos and mementos had arisen from the woodwork as the years passed.

What was so unique about the photo in the locket was that, despite the stationary image, it seemed to show more of Lily and James' personalities than any of the other pictures of them that Harry had seen before.

Harry knew that he had inherited his mother's eyes. That was true, no doubt about that. But what he never realized was that when people told him this, they were not just referring to the color of his eyes—the same jade green as his mother's—but also to their expression—the pattern of the crinkles, the spacing of features . . . there was something about the look on his mother's face that was so familiar to his own that it gave Harry chills.

"What's that?" Ron asked, peering over Harry's shoulder at the contents of the locket. Ron had started reading Dudley's letter alongside Harry until he'd reached the part about the Sneakascope and had begun regaling to the other Gryffindors the Tale of Scabbers the Rat and how Bill had said Sneakascope's were nonsense, hadn't he, and how wrong they'd all been because every time that stupid rat had been nearby the Sneakascope the sodding thing had gone off, all spinning around, hadn't it? And it sounds like Harry's Uncle Vernon is a bit of a sneak-thief at work, doesn't it, because the proof's right there, Hermione, right there in front of the bugger.

"Sorry?" Harry murmured, absently running a finger along the locket's bronze edge, completely entranced in the image.

"That-there!" Ron choked out over his food. Hermione looked over, too. "In the necklace."

Harry blinked, startled out of his reverie and looked up at Ron, blank-faced. "Sorry, what?"

Harry's odd behavior was enough to catch Hermione's attention, because she quickly stood up from where Ginny was feigning disinterest from behind the pages of a fashion magazine, and stomped around the table to peek over Harry's shoulder.

Hermione gasped and covered her mouth with one hand. "Oh my," she said, leaning closer for a look. "Is that—?"

"My parents, yeah," said Harry.

"Then that, there, is—?"

"Me," Harry supplied. "When I was a baby."

A small grin curled the corners of Hermione's lips and she exchanged a glance with Ron who was also smiling, despite the sensitive moment.

"Oh my," Hermione cooed. She patted Harry on the shoulder lightly then slipped onto the bench between Ron and Harry for a better look. "Look at poor little Harry." She and Ron paused. They seemed to be waiting for Harry's reaction. He supposed that made sense—it certainly was a sensitive topic and when it came to his parents, Harry was known for flying off the handle.

To Ron and Hermione's obvious relief, Harry laughed at the remark and his two friends instantly relaxed, having gained his approval to make light of a heavy situation.

"Would you look at that?" Ron mused, leaning over Hermione. Harry placed the locket down on the Gryffindor table so they could all get a better look. "You haven't changed much, Harry. You still cry when you have to dress up."

"I do not," Harry protested with a chuckle.

"Sure you do. Just look at the Yule Ball when you kept complaining about the size of your bow-tie."

"It was strangling me!" Harry cried.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Sure, it was."

"That's funny, Ron," said Ginny, tapping her chin. She briefly glanced at Harry then snapped her eyes back to her brother. "I seem to recall you throwing an undignified fit over your dress robes."

"Hey," cried Ron, affronted.

"Oh, that's right," Seamus piped from across the table, waving his roll in the air for emphasis. "You ran from the Common Room shouting, 'I give up! I give up! I'm Flooing my mother and I don't care if she kills me!'"

Ron's face turned beat red. "I did not . . ."

Neville was laughing, too. "You definitely did, mate."

"It's true," added Dean with a smirk.

Harry nodded along, remembering Ron's complete meltdown. "Someone get me Floo powder! There's got to be Floo powder around here somewhere!"

"Where's Oliver Wood?" Lavender laughed, joining in.

"Fred says Wood was the last one on the Floo!"

"Christmas! He's gone home for Christmas? He can't have gone home for Christmas!"

Soon the entire table was in an uproar, quoting Ron and adding remarks, laughing hysterically at the redhead.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Ron muttered. "I wasn't that bad!"

A chorus of giggles rose from the girls. "Yes, you were!"

"Okay, okay. Fine!" Ron waved his hands in the air to try and quiet his friends. "Maybe I was! But that doesn't mean Harry was Mister Sophisticated."

The girls giggled louder and Ron looked at them in confusion.

"According to Witch Weekly," Lavender said in a singsong voice, grinning ear to ear, "He was."

Harry made a horrified face. "Are you joking?" The girls shook their heads and blushed. "Mister Sophisticated?"

Hermione gave Harry a rueful look. "Sorry, Harry," she offered with a shrug. "It was in the Sizzling Summer Spreads. I didn't want to tell you . . ."

"Ginny has the article," Lavender said in a stage whisper and Ginny widened her eyes, blushing furiously. Harry began to blush, too. He quickly looked away from the girl and back down at the locket in his hands, feeling the tips of his ears go red.

"Lavender!" Hermione admonished, having sensed the very awkward tension in the air and jumping to Ginny's defense. "Ginny kept the article because Nate Peterson was on the other side."

"Shh-Hermione!" Ginny looked horrified.

Hermione winced. "Sorry."

"Oh, you mean Mister Muscles?" Lavender drawled, batting her eyelashes.

Ginny frowned at her plate. "It's only because they described the offensive move he used in the '95 Tea Cup."

Hermione gave her a reassuring pat on the hand. "I know, Ginny."

"Cut it out, Lav," Dean said. He gave Harry an odd, apologetic smile that was more a twist of the mouth than anything and at the strange shift in conversation, everyone seemed to shy back to their food, leaving Harry, Ron and Hermione to observe the locket on their own.

"So, this came from Dudley?" Ron asked, scrunching his face as he said Harry's cousin's name.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Weird, eh?"

"Extremely," Hermione agreed. "The locket itself is very unique. The glasswork is exquisite.

"Too bad the clasp is broken," said Harry.

Ron and Hermione gave him a funny look. Hermione pulled out her wand. "Reparo," she said.

Nothing happened.

"Strange," she murmured with a frown. She reached forward to touch the locket and jumped back with a yelp when her fingers made contact with the metal.

"What is it?" Ron asked, grabbing her hand and inspecting her fingers for injury. Hermione yanked her hands—which looked fine—out of his grasp.

"Harry!" Hermione cried. "That's a magical object!"

Harry shrugged "Um, I did realize that for myself. And?"

"And, it could be dangerous," Hermione said with a worried look.

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," said Harry, irritated. "Why would my parents have kept pictures in a dangerous magical object?"

"Wait," Ron interrupted. "How do you know it's a magical object?"

Hermione frowned and flexed her fingers, looking at them curiously. "I felt a small . . . bite. A-a shock when I touched it."

Harry began to worry that Hermione was going to try and take the locket away. "So, it was a little warm? Big deal. The Marauder's Map feels a little warm, too, when I use it. My Dad probably just charmed the locket to do something special. He was really good at Transfiguration."

"Maybe it's another map of Hogwarts!" Ron suggested. "Or . . . or something like a compass. It sort of looks like one, doesn't it?" He wrinkled up his freckled forehead and tilted his head to the side. "Sort of?"

Harry looked back down at the orb in his palm. It did resemble a kind of compass or directional tool. "It does. Do you reckon that's what it is?"

"Maybe," Hermione said, doubtfully. "Harry—are you sure this is from Dudley?"

"I don't know of anyone else with such poor spelling."

"Take it to Dumbledore, Harry," Hermione said with finality.

"No!" Harry snapped, clutching the locket tightly in his palm and holding it against his chest. "No—I'm not doing that. Why? So he can take it away from me?" Harry knew he was acting just a bit ridiculous over the whole thing, but everything was always a big deal and an issue with him. Why couldn't he just have this one thing?

Clearly put out, Hermione stepped off of the bench and walked briskly back to her side of the table.

Ron leaned forward and whispered to Harry. "Just hold onto it. If things start getting weird then we'll take it to Dumbledore, yeah?"

Harry loosened his death grip on the locket. "Yeah," he breathed, nodding. "Okay. Thanks, Ron."

"What's the little note say?"

Using the back of his fork, Harry popped the note gently out of the prongs and caught it before it fell to the ground. Setting down his fork, Harry used two hands to gently unfold the note. The parchment was deeply creased, the lines darkened and weakened with age. In messy script were written these words:

"Love is the thread in the ties that bind us. The heart is the compass that guides us."

Harry looked from the locket back to Ron.

"Hmm," Ron said, with a thoughtful raise of his eyebrows. "Nice."

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Nice."

….

….

….

Draco looked down at the folded slip of parchment in his hand and rolled his eyes. "You must be joking," he murmured under his breath. A small growl erupted from the stone gargoyle in front of him and Draco grimaced. "Er—right."

He looked down to his right and to his left and when he was certain that he was alone, Draco gave the password. "Oozing Willies," he muttered, quickly blushing at the implication. The name of the candy had given rise to endless jokes in the Slytherin House, especially after Marcus Flint notoriously "ended the party early" whilst snogging Daphne Greengrass in fourth year. It didn't help that the candy happened to be Flint's favorite at the time.

Draco had been on edge all day, waiting to have this conversation with Snape and the Headmaster. He had wondered what they were going to discuss. Would Snape mention Draco's plans for killing the old man? Had the Order moved Draco's mother yet? And just how was he supposed to spy for Dumbledore and have his mother conspicuously disappear at the same time?

The endless questions had Draco's head spinning madly and he'd been unable to concentrate on a single assignment for the entire day. On top of that, he was forbidden to discuss matters with anyone until he met with Dumbledore. Draco felt certain that everyone somehow knew the truth about him, as if he were wearing a badge that read "Lord Voldemort Stinks," or "I'm a Traitor to the Dark Lord."

Goyle had asked Draco three separate times that day when he was going to help with the task again. By the third time, Draco was sure that the questions were intentional and that Goyle was pestering him only to drive his conscience bonkers. Theo and Blaise seemed particularly nasty throughout the day, and at one embarrassing moment, Crabbe asked Draco if he wanted to trade desserts, to which Draco cried, "I'm not a traitor! Er—trader! I don't trade desserts!" and quickly shoved his entire slice of chocolate pie in his mouth to prevent further damage.

Draco climbed slowly to the Headmaster's office, recalling the time he had been there in second year, before being assigned a detention by McGonagall for being caught out of bed after curfew. He'd been trying to rat out Potter, as usual, and that Hagrid monstrosity who had been harboring a dragon on the school grounds.

Draco had seen the dragon, too. He was certain. To this day, he couldn't understand how the dragon had escaped and how Potter got away with it, but he remembered the gentle unfurling of wings and the birth of the fire breathing beast as one of the coolest things he had ever witnessed.

It had been worth the detention.

Draco knocked on the door to the Headmaster's office, the aged, old wood worn soft under his knuckles. The door opened and Draco found himself facing his Head of House. Behind him was Dumbledore, seated at his desk, hands folded calmly in front of him.

Draco looked at the Headmaster quickly, then looked away. Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling merrily, as usual. For Merlin's sakes, Draco had been plotting the man's murder for months. What was funny about that?

It was shameful, really.

Draco never felt ashamed. Jesus.

Abruptly, Draco darted past Professor Snape and took the seat farthest from Dumbledore. Snape strode over to him. "Stand up, Draco."

Draco stood. He stared fixedly at the floor, gulping.

"Draco," said Professor Dumbledore, kindly. "Please take the seat beside Professor Snape. I should like to see you when I speak with you. I'm an old man. My eyesight is not what it once was."

Nodding jerkily, Draco clutched his school bag in two hands, moved toward the seat indicated and lowered himself into it. He could feel heat rising on his cheeks.

"Orange drop?"

Draco shook his head.

"I'm sure you wouldn't mind if I helped myself?" Dumbledore asked.

Draco shook his head again.

"Headmaster," Snape interjected, his voice sounding irritated, "could we please begin? I foresee much work and little time in which to complete it."

"Ah, yes," said Dumbledore, popping the candy in his mouth. Draco fought the urge to wrinkle his nose at the slurping sounds of the old man gumming his candy. His mother most certainly would have been appalled.

His mother.

Draco dared to look up at Dumbledore. He could feel his own mouth drawn tightly together.

"Draco—" Dumbledore began.

"I'm sorry," Draco blurted.

Snape exchanged a look with Dumbledore. "I beg your pardon?" Dumbledore asked.

"Hasn't Professor Snape—" Draco fumbled and looked over at his Head of House whose sullen face revealed nothing. "Er—has he explained to you?" Draco's heart began to pound in his chest. "Sir?" he added.

"Explained to me?" asked Dumbledore, slowly. "Explained to me what, exactly?"

Draco looked from Snape to Dumbledore and back again before throwing his hands into the air. "Oh, for God's sakes!" he snapped. "Don't feign ignorance. Please."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Draco," Snape said in a forcibly steady voice. "Perhaps you'd care to enlighten Professor Dumbledore on why you are here."

Draco blanched, feeling the color drain from his face. Snape couldn't be serious. Dumbledore didn't know what was going on? He knew everything! Those damn blue eyes twinkled with the secrets of every witch or wizard at Hogwarts. "You mean . . . he hasn't been told?" His voice was barely a squeak.

Snape just stared at Draco.

"Oh."

Gathering his courage, Draco tried to be brave. How would Potter react in this situation?

Like a maniac, was his answering thought. Or better, Potter wouldn't be in this situation.

But if he were, he would be courageous. He would look Professor Dumbledore in the eye, probably.

"Well," Draco began slowly, his eyes tightly shut. "I was given a job to complete, sir. By the end of the year. And uh-I. U-um. I changed my mind about it, Sir and I was hoping—well, Snape said you would—maybe-that for my mother and me, you would keep us safe somewhere." Draco opened his eyes and took a shaky breath. "I promise you that I won't—we won't, and perhaps my father, too, though perhaps not, it's rather doubtful, don't you think? Um—tell anything to anyone. I swear."

Draco could see that Snape was giving him an odd look of annoyance and pity. The Headmaster, on the other hand, looked intrigued.

"You can make me swear to it," Draco added. "Please."

Dumbledore gave Draco a hard look and as he did so, Draco could feel a familiar probing

sensation behind his eyes. That old coot was trying to read his mind!

Having just recently practiced Occluding, Draco instantly put up walls, remaining calm and in control. The burning sensation lessened after a few moments and he glared at the Headmaster. "What do you think you're doing?" Draco spat.

Dumbledore gave a guilty smile and a shrug. "I daresay you know exactly what I was doing."

"But—"

"Draco!" Snape roared. "Enough of this nonsense. For someone who was trained in oration from the age of five, you sound more idiotic than Potter on his worst day."

Draco exhaled haughtily. He wanted to answer the Headmaster and get this over with but his mouth just couldn't seem to form the words. Sure, he was trained in public speaking-but never had his teacher taught him how to clearly enunciate a murder plot confession to the intended victim.

Giving up, he shook his head. "No," he whispered. "I-sorry."

Two hands smacked down onto the corner of Dumbledore's desk, startling Draco and eliciting a squawk out of the Headmaster's phoenix. Snape moved very close to Draco's face and Draco could smell the familiar sour potion smell radiating off the man. "You can," he growled. "And you will. You were willing to complete the task. Now, find the will to confess. I'll not bring a coward into our ranks."

"Fine!" Draco snapped back, his feelings slightly hurt. "Christ." He took a deep breath and blew it out. This was it. He had to confess. Swallowing hard, Draco spoke in a low tone. "The Dark Lord ordered me to kill you." He gave a half-hearted nod toward Dumbledore. "Okay?"

Dumbledore sat back in his chair and gave a nod of consent. "Ah, yes." He folded his hands on the knotted wooden desk. "That task."

"You did know," Draco murmured. "Didn't you?"

Dumbledore gave one slow nod.

Draco shot an accusing glare at Snape, whose penetrating gaze met his with an equal amount of vitriol under which Draco shrank. Draco looked back at Professor Dumbledore. "Of course you did." He laughed without mirth. "You know everything."

"Not everything," said Dumbledore, gently.

And then Draco felt a sudden, hot lump rise in his throat. He coughed, trying in vain to clear it. "I'm sorry." Draco's voice cracked and he blinked hard, forcing himself to look the Headmaster in the eye. "I-I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore."

Feeling out of control, Draco squeezed his eyes shut and tried to push the urge to cry back down into his stomach. His fingernails dug into the skin of his hands as he took one forcibly calm breath after another. The relief he felt at confessing was overshadowed by guilt.

Eventually the need to cry lessened and Draco released his hands and opened his eyes again. Expecting faces full of fury and hatred, Draco was confused to see Dumbledore looking at him kindly and Snape, still with that pitying expression on his face, looking inexplicably proud.

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy," said Professor Dumbledore. "I had so hoped you would come forward and ask for help. Words cannot express how truly relieved I am that you have chosen to do so. Help is always available to those at Hogwarts—one needs only ask. As such, the Order of the Phoenix will take you and your mother so long as you swear allegiance and promise to do everything in your power to bring about Lord Voldemort's demise."

Feeling a surge of hope, Draco nodded. "Of course, Professor. Anything." Snape cast a glance at Dumbledore and scowled.

"With that being said," Dumbledore continued, his eyes darkening, "I am sorry to inform you that I cannot alleviate you from your task."

"Wait—" Draco interrupted. Surely he couldn't mean—? No, of course not. Dumbledore must be talking about another task that he had for Draco—a task for the Order. "Sorry. Go on."

"Your task will continue as planned, Mr. Malfoy. You will report to Lord Voldemort and—"

"Wait!" Draco choked, turning a pleading glance at Snape. "What does he mean?"

Snape gestured for Dumbledore to continue, but Draco interrupted once more. "No! Stop! What task?"

Rolling his eyes, Snape replied, "You are still responsible for killing the Headmaster, Draco."

No—it couldn't be. It didn't make any sense. Draco shook his head as he searched Dumbledore's face for confirmation, but the twinkle was lost as his grave eyes bore into Draco's. "I don't understand," Draco added, helplessly.

"I think you do, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said.

"If you do not continue as planned," Snape said, "you will blow your entire cover and endanger your life, as well as your mother's."

The room was quiet for a moment, then Dumbledore said, "I must die, Draco. And it must be at your hands. That is the plan."

Draco was sick. He couldn't believe it. After all that. After thinking there was hope for him, after fooling himself into thinking there was another option it all came down to this. Draco had to kill Dumbledore. This was what his entire life came down to. No matter what he did, Draco was destined to end up a killer.

Perhaps it was his punishment for taking the task in the first bloody place. As if he hadn't had enough punishment already.

"But that's not fair," Draco shouted, pounding the table with his fist.

"It is what is best for the war—" Dumbledore began.

"I don't care about the war," Draco raved. "I care about my life. I care about my family!"

"It is what is best for your family," Dumbledore added in a calm voice. "If you do not follow through with Lord Voldemort's orders, it could very well mean death for you and your parents."

"So… so—what?" Draco rose, angrily. "My parents are just bargaining chips to you, too?"

"Sit down, Draco," Snape said.

But Draco couldn't stop glaring at the Headmaster. "You're no different than He is!"

"SIT DOWN!" Snape's face was darkened crimson in the cheeks.

Draco turned from his professors feeling dizzy. "No matter what I do, I have to . . . have to—why? Why me? That's not bloody fair!"

"War is never fair, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore spoke, "but this is the best chance for you and your family."

Draco picked his bag up off the floor. "Fine," he said quietly. The he looked up at Snape and fixed him with a cold glare. "I hate you," Draco said. His eyes moved toward Dumbledore who now stood, still and calm, his blackened hand resting on his desk. "I hate you both. Now, if you don't mind, I'll be going." His feet, like dead weights, dragged him toward the door. "I have work to do."

"Draco," Snape's voice stopped him. Draco turned. His Head of House wore an apologetic look on his face, but Draco was far from moved. "Tell no one."

Draco swallowed hard and gave a tight nod. "Of course." No one could know. No one could ever know. He'd perfected his miserable life of utter secrecy and now it would have to continue, with even more secrets.

Secrets piled upon secrets.

He supposed he should feel lucky to be a Slytherin, but he didn't.

….

….

….

The snow was coming down in tufts, soft clumps on the windowpane, sticking on the pane in small pats. Harry stared at the graying sky as twilight set over the castle.

Defense Against the Dark Arts had been giving him a tough time lately. In fact, all of his classes had been especially difficult except, of course, Potions, as he had the Half Blood Prince's book of answers to help him with every assignment.

Held in Harry's hands was the locket from Dudley, which he still hadn't brought to Professor Dumbledore, despite Hermione's persistent wheedling. The magical heat calmed him and the small weight of the object was steadying despite his own suspicions of its potential danger.

"Harry," Hermione began, her voice rising in an all-too-familiar whine. "I see what you're playing with, you know. Not only is it a distraction from your essay, which I know you haven't yet begun to write, but I just don't like the idea of it. Not unless you've showed it to Dumbledore."

Harry said nothing, just flipped the locket over in his hands again.

"And I was thinking—"

Nothing new there, Harry thought.

"—it's possible that it's a—" She widened her eyes and cast a paranoid glance around the seemingly deserted common room. "A—a. Well-you know what," she finished in an intense whisper.

"Of course I know what. Hermione, don't you think I've thought of that?"

Hermione closed a small purple book that she had been writing in and moved closer to Harry. She squeezed in by his feet on the windowsill. "Harry," she said softly. "I just don't understand, then. This isn't like you. It just isn't—"

"Isn't what?"

"Responsible," she finished with a certain frown. "If you have even the tiniest inkling that the locket could be, well, something like that—" Hermione looked to the left and to the right then back down at the locket in her hands. "Then why are you being so . . . so selfish?"

"And what's so bad about that?" Harry snapped. "Everyone else is selfish. Why can't I be?"

Hermione glared at him. "You know that's not true."

"Oh, isn't it?"

"If it were me," her voice shook with anger, "I would have turned it in."

Scowling, Harry wrapped his hand more tightly around the locket.

"And," Hermione added, turning to look out the window, "you say Dudley found it at your aunt and uncle's house."

"So?"

"So, Harry!" Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. "You told me that everything the Dursley's had of your parents' they received on the night that-on the night you defeated Voldemort."

Harry opened his palm and watched the refracted light of dusk twinkle from the glass orbs.

"So," he said after some time. "You think they had this with them the night that they died?"

Hermione placed a hand on Harry's knee and spoke softly. "I think that makes sense."

Harry looked up at his friend and smirked. "Well, that settles it, then," he said. "I'm definitely keeping it."

Removing her hand and sighing, Hermione just shook her head.

….

….

….

"Get a move on, you lugs," Draco commanded Crabbe and Goyle as they struggled to keep up with him in the deserted corridor. "Curfew's in an hour."

"Er, Draco," said the brunette girl on his left. Draco had to remind himself that this was Goyle. "Doesn't it usually take you longer than that?"

Crabbe and Goyle had been asking more and more questions about the plan Draco was putting into action. While they still didn't know what Draco's final product would be—they were growing curious and—to Draco's fear—increasingly doubtful of his success. Or so it seemed. And while Draco trusted his pals infinitely, he knew for a fact that the Dark Lord routinely read their minds and, thus, it was imperative that Draco appear loyal without giving anything away.

How he wished he could confess everything to his friends, but it would only endanger them now that they had the Dark Mark.

Snape and Dumbledore, as much as Draco hated to admit it, were right. Draco couldn't say a word to anyone involved on either side of the war. It was a lonely feeling, belonging to no side. It was probably why Snape had always been in such a foul mood.

And it seemed that everyone, these days, was suspicious of Draco. As well they should be. And Draco, once again, was trying desperately to ignore the fact that his task had anything to do with killing Dumbledore. And this, as predicted, resulted in the full-on rebellion of his nervous system.

"Well, today it doesn't, Matilda," said Draco.

"Can't you just tell us what you're doing?" Goyle pleaded. "Just so we have an idea?"

Draco frowned. "You know I can't, Go—Matilda. So stop asking or I'll find someone else to help me."

Goyle shook his head and glared.

"That's what I thought," Draco said.

"So," Crabbe jumped in to Goyle's defense, "what do you expect he'll tell the Dark Lord the next time He asks him what your doing?"

Pacing back in forth in front of the Room of Requirement, Draco ignored Crabbe's question.

"Well?" Crabbe prodded.

"Shut up, you idiot," said Draco. "You're making me lose my concentration."

"Fuck you, Malfoy," Crabbe grunted as the door the Room appeared. Draco paused and stared at Crabbe, his jaw falling open slightly. It was one thing for Crabbe to get irritated with him, but quite another for him to get that pissy.

"What's your problem?" Draco asked.

Crabbe just shook his head. His teeth were clenched together and his mouth was closed tightly.

Goyle shifted uncomfortably and wrapped his arms in a protective gesture around his feminine chest. "The Dark Lord's been asking, Draco," he whispered, then looked to both sides and lowered his voice further. "Both of us. He wants to know what you're doing, why you aren't finished."

Draco's breath caught in his throat, then he shook his head furiously. This wasn't his problem. It couldn't be. He had too many other things to worry about now like his mother who was being taken from the Manor that evening under the guise of a family holiday and his father who had been spewing pro-Death Eater propaganda from the moment Snape got into contact with him.

"Look," Draco hissed. "I can't tell you two anything because you don't know how to do Occlumancy. Okay? It's too dangerous. If Dumbledore should read your mind—"

"I've been teaching myself," Crabbe said.

Draco paused for a moment, caught off guard. That was impressive, but not enough for him to confess his plans to them. "Well, we all know what a quick study you are," Draco finally retorted, turning his attention back to the door.

A surprisingly strong hand landed on Draco's shoulder and the blonde girl puffed up her chest and turned him around. "Look, Malfoy. You aren't the only one whose neck he's breathing down—"

"Well, whose fault is that?" Draco shouted, then quickly lowered his voice. "You idiots volunteered for this! You signed up for it! It isn't my fault. Can't you get that through your thick heads? It isn't my fault and I can't get you out of it so stop whining!"

Draco shoved Crabbe off of his shoulder and stumbled back toward the door, breathing heavily.

"You're stronger than that, anyway," Draco added. He brushed a loose lock of hair off of his forehead and tucked it behind his ear, glaring imperiously at the two Polyjuiced boys before him. "Do you understand me?"

Crabbe and Goyle nodded.

"Good." Draco straightened, then turned to open the door. "Stay here and keep out of trouble."

"Okay," Goyle agreed, nudging Crabbe, who grunted his consent.

….

….

….

"Weasley's Weather Watcher," Ron said, glumly. He held a flag emblazoned with the same message and gave it an unenthusiastic flip. "All forecasts 50% off, today only."

"Hear ye," Seamus muttered. "Hear ye." They were sitting side by side on the Gryffindor bench in the Great Hall. Most of the Professors didn't seem to mind the illegal business, except for Professor Snape, who seemed more determined than ever to shut them down after the Weasley twins' forged permit appeared to be legitimate. Snape had gone so far as to present his students with extra credit material on Weather Charms with the promise of bonus points for those motivated enough to learn them—which turned out to be a large percentage of the boys' customers.

Dean held up a hand, signaling them to stop their soliciting, which meant that Snape must have finally looked up from the heated conversation that he had been having with Professor Dumbledore all throughout breakfast.

"I don't get it," Ron said, setting his flag down beside his toast. "Who actually takes the time to learn extra credit charms?"

Hermione gave him a hard look.

"Well, you don't count," Ron said. Hermione huffed. "And anyway, it was a service charge. Who wants to spend their whole day casting weather spells about? That's what I'd like to know."

Hermione reached forward and gave Ron's hand a sympathetic pat.

"It was a public service, you know?" He rambled, smearing his toast with drippy marmalade and taking a large bite. "You've got to pay for a service."

"Mmm hmm."

"That's the convenience of it."

"Mmm hmm."

"Nothing's free, you know."

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance and Harry put a hand over his face to cover his laughter.

"Well, except for magic," Ron added with an emphatic nod. Hermione giggled and Ron blinked, looking up from his toast at her. "What?" he demanded and frowned as he ran through the last few things he had said. "Oh. Yeah, yeah, very funny. Laugh it up."

"Lighten up, Ron," Harry said. "It's not the end of the world."

Ron shrugged. "Right, I know." He grabbed his napkin and wiped a greasy sheen off his chin. "It was just nice for once. To have a bit of pocket money for a change."

Harry was about to respond when he heard snickering from behind. Ron and Harry turned around to see Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle standing nearby, leering at them.

Ron clenched his hands into fists. "Go on, Malfoy. I dare you to say something."

Malfoy placed a hand on his heart. "Who, me?" Then he raised his hands in mock defense. "I never said a word, Weasley."

Harry tried to catch Malfoy's gaze but his steel grey eyes were determinedly avoiding Harry's and had zeroed in on Ron.

"I know you aren't as brainy as your little Mudblood girlfriend here," Draco gestured to Hermione, " but I have to say I'm surprised it took you this long to cotton on to the benefits of money."

"Get lost, Malfoy." Harry could feel his heart rate accelerating. He threw a hand out to hold Ron back, but Ron hadn't moved.

"I'll kill you for talking about her like that," Ron said in a low even voice.

"Ooh, I'm scared, Weasley." Malfoy looked exhausted, though his tired eyes were intense. "Don't your kind know how to take a compliment?"

"Ignore him," Hermione warned. "Just sit down, Ron."

"Listen to the Mudblood, Weasel—"

"Shut up, Malfoy." Harry was so sick of this. So sick Malfoy's mood swings and temper tantrums. "Stop calling her that."

"Oh, pardon me, Potter!" Malfoy looked to Crabbe and Goyle for reassurance, but Crabbe was staring at the Slytherin table anxiously awaiting his chance at the bread basket and Goyle was looking at Harry as if unsure what to do next. "But I don't—"

"Move," Harry said to Goyle, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Malfoy, I want to see you alone in the corridor. Now."

Malfoy balked at Goyle with a look of betrayal on his face. "I said I don't—"

"What's the matter? Are you scared?" Harry asked. He noticed a slight flush tinging the top of Malfoy's cheeks and added in a low voice, "of me?"

"Yeah, right," said Malfoy, blushing.

"Then, let's go." Harry turned from Malfoy without waiting, confident that the blonde would follow him. He'd be willing to bet that Malfoy had put on the entire impromptu show just to get Harry's attention. A small voice in his head said it was not wise to reward Malfoy's misbehavior by giving him exactly what he wanted, but a larger part of him knew that he wanted it, too.

Malfoy had been acting strangely over the past week. They hadn't met each other at all. Every time Harry saw the boy, he was either flanked by his two goons or by those two girls, which was not only frustrating, but also highly suspicious.

Continuing down the corridor in the direction of the dungeons, Harry could hear the swift sound of boot-steps echoing behind him and knew that Malfoy had, indeed, followed.

Harry turned off course. He ducked into a rarely used corridor on his left and waited by a brilliant red and gold tapestry of a buffalo that hung over a small alcove.

"Potter?" came Malfoy's voice and the blonde appeared before him. The sleeves of his robes were pushed up slightly—but not so high as to reveal his Dark Mark—and his wand was pointed at Harry.

"Malfoy—"

"Aha!" Malfoy jabbed his wand in Harry's direction and made a little wiggling movement with it. He took a step forward, bringing his wand closer to Harry's throat.

Harry backhanded the wand. It slipped from Malfoy's grip and fell to the floor with a clatter. "Get that out of my face, you git."

Malfoy dropped to his knees and scrambled to pick up his wand. When he looked up to Harry with his mouth turned down at the corners, Harry had already fixed his wand on Malfoy and had his foot hovering dangerously close to Malfoy's face.

"What do you want?" Malfoy breathed, looking infinitely more exhausted than he had only moments earlier.

"Mmm," Harry said lightly. "A bit of déjà vu, wouldn't you say?" He moved the toe of his trainer slightly closer to Malfoy's face. Malfoy flinched in response, but even that seemed to drag.

"What?" Malfoy asked, a smirk now playing on his features. "Are you going to break my nose now, Potter?"

Harry rolled his eyes and dropped to his knees beside Malfoy. "Of course not."

Malfoy smiled slightly and mouthed the words "Of course not," under his breath. Then he shook his head. "No, of course not. Of course you wouldn't."

Suddenly, Harry felt himself pinned on his back by the palm of Malfoy's hand, while his other hand was wrestling Harry's for possession of his wand.

"Let me guess!" Harry grunted out, trying to shove Malfoy off of him. "You would. Is that right?"

"Yeah," Malfoy gasped as Harry elbowed him in the chest. "Ow! Fucker."

"Gerroff!" Harry cried, elbowing Malfoy again. He could hear a whoosh of breath escape the Slytherin and hoped that he hadn't injured him too badly.

A flash of pink obscured Harry's sight before a dull sharpness blacked out his vision and stole his breath. As the world faded and Harry saw stars he briefly wondered just how moronic he and Malfoy truly were. They were in the corridor fist-fighting because Malfoy insulted Harry's friends to get Harry's attention since they'd been unable to see each other for a week.

Or something. Harry thought. Maybe that was it. Something like that, anyway.

There had to be laws against relationships like this. Harry was certain Hermione would have some not-too-kind words to say about it.

"Potter!"

Harry felt movement, but refused to leave the blessed blackness of what was probably some low-grade concussion.

"Potter! Fuck. Shit. Open your eyes." Malfoy's voice sounded urgent. "Come on, Potter! If you don't open your eyes, I'm leaving you here, I swear."

"Mmm?" Harry mumbled as the dim light of the corridor flooded hazily into his red vision. "Ahh. Ow." He coughed, tasting blood in his mouth. "Wha'dyou do?"

Malfoy's wild face appeared twice in Harry's field of view, the dizzying spin of the hallway bouncing the two blonde heads together and apart. "Hey, get up!"

Harry spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor and watched as Malfoy performed a wound-cleansing spell on his mouth. "Malff . . . whatha, why'dyo—mmmff." Malfoy had quickly covered Harry's mouth with his own and was now kissing him into the stone floor. And as much as Harry wanted to reciprocate, he had no clue what was going on, feeling as though he and Malfoy's interaction had just followed the nauseating path of a Tilt-A-Whirl.

"Wha—are—you—doin . . . ?" Harry uttered into Malfoy's tongue. Ignoring the sickening lurch in his stomach, Harry shoved Malfoy off of him. The blonde rolled over onto his back and rested his head on the wall of the corridor, his neck bent at a sharp angle. He was breathing heavily and blinking rapidly.

"Merlin sakes!" Harry gasped, wiping at his mouth and expecting to find blood, but finding only sweat and saliva. "What do you think you're doing?"

Grey eyes looked down and then up. Malfoy shrugged.

"Well, figure it out for God's sakes! You've been avoiding me for a week and then this—what the hell was this?"

"Sorry?" Malfoy asked hopefully.

"Apology not accepted." Harry touched a hand lightly to his nose and hissed in pain, wondering if Malfoy had broken it again. His entire face hurt, so it was difficult to say.

Malfoy sighed and scooted up along the wall, aiming his wand at Harry's face again.

"Put your wand away!" Harry yelled. "Are you mental or something?"

"Just hold still," Malfoy said.

"No way! Why, so you can—?"

"Alright, already! I'm sorry, Potter." Malfoy looked flummoxed. "Just hold still a minute so I can fix it."

Grudgingly, Harry relaxed and stilled as Malfoy aimed his wand at his face. "What I don't understand is why you did it in the first bloody place, you aristocratic lunatic."

"Just shut up, Potter." Malfoy reached one hand forward and gently tilted Harry's face up toward him. The nearness of Malfoy, despite the last few moments of insanity, still caused Harry's breath to catch in his chest. He peeked one eye open and dared to look at Malfoy. Malfoy was whispering the words of a Healing Spell but staring directly into Harry's eyes the whole time. Harry couldn't look away. As the pain and pressure in his face lessened exponentially and Malfoy completed the spell, the two continued to stare.

It was difficult to explain, but Harry felt that in that moment he could read all of Malfoy's thoughts without understanding one single thing that was going on. There was some other element at play here— some wavelength that the two were tuned into that could not be sensed in any normal way. In fact, all five senses, including sensible thought, strongly conveyed the opposite message.

And yet, Harry couldn't look away.

"Malfoy," Harry breathed, his skin tingling where Malfoy's clammy hand still rested under his chin. "What's going on?"

Malfoy's lips were parted as he breathed heavily through his mouth. "Nothing," he said hoarsely.

Harry shook his head, trying to pull away, but Malfoy slightly increased the pressure under his chin enough to keep him still. "Just stop," Harry said, his tone pleading. "Why are you taking the piss out of Ron and insulting Hermione like that? I thought—"

Malfoy's face darkened. "Thought what?"

Harry shrugged. "I thought you knew if you wanted to talk to me you could just, you know. Talk to me. Instead of trying to get a rise out of my friends and attacking me to get my attention."

A breathy snicker began to come out of those lips, twisting them cruelly. "Is that what you think, Potter?"

Annoyed, Harry removed Malfoy's hand from his chin and reached down to tighten the laces of his trainers. "Okay," he said, tugging his laces aggressively. "Then what is it?"

Malfoy got very quiet as he stared at Harry's trainers. Then he looked at his own boots and began to re-buckle the straps. "You need to learn Occlumency."

Harry paused and dropped his laces, letting them hit the stone with a clack. "What?" he asked with a soft laugh.

"Don't laugh," Malfoy said, reaching up a hand to scrub tiredly at his eyes. "Just fucking learn it already, Potter."

"I am," Harry said, incredulously. "Er-you're teaching me. Remember?"

"Well, I can't anymore, so find somebody else." Malfoy pulled his buckle to the tightest hole and secured it even though it was clearly squeezing the skin around his calf.

Harry laid his hand on the pinched skin of Malfoy's leg. He pushed Malfoy's hand away and began fixing the buckle. Malfoy let him. "Why not?"

"I'm busy," said Malfoy, placing his hands on Harry's shoulders.

"With what?" Harry glanced back at Malfoy's boot. He didn't like the look on Malfoy's face. There was something . . . definite . . . about it.

Fingers squeezed Harry's shoulders. Malfoy's eyes were wide and pleading. "I'm busy," he said again, giving a slow nod as if Harry was supposed to understand the true meaning of those words.

But he didn't.

Malfoy sighed and dropped his hands. "I'm just busy, Potter. Okay?" He swallowed. "I can't do it anymore. Find someone else to teach you. Tell Snape you're sorry for being an arse or something."

"No way."

"Potter, I'm not joking!" Malfoy climbed to his feet. "Promise me that you'll find someone to teach you."

Malfoy had been so gung-ho about weaseling his way into Harry's mind and private memories before. What had changed between then and now? Harry remembered Malfoy running out of their lessons ranting about Harry being a liar of some sort, but that couldn't be a good enough reason to give up such an opportunity to prowl around his mind, could it?

Malfoy must have seen something in the memories that bothered him. Harry had been embarrassed enough that day but hadn't considered the possibility of those memories being in some way offensive to Malfoy. The sudden thought was humiliating and Harry felt his cheeks redden. "Oh, I get it," Harry said. "Was my life too uncomfortable for you to watch?"

Malfoy shook his head.

"Or were you just bothered by the fact that I'm not some great hero after all?" Harry asked, his words tasting bitter on his tongue as he hoped they weren't true. "That I'm really just a—what was it you said? A pathetic orphan who got beat on by Muggles his entire life? That disgusts you, does it?" Harry's hands clenched into tense fists.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Then what?"

Malfoy sighed. "It was a stupid and selfish idea."

"You're realizing this now?"

"And it isn't safe. Or smart."

Harry rolled his eyes. Malfoy was probably right, but there was something about this whole bizarre conversation that was making Harry feel awfully suspicious.

"But swear to me that you'll practice," Malfoy added.

"Okay, okay, I swear."

"Promise me."

"I promise!" Harry snapped. "Merlin, how about you promise me that you'll stop insulting my friends?"

Malfoy bit his lip and smirked. "Hmm, no. Sorry, Potter. I can't do that."

Irritated, Harry stood and began walking away.

"Come on. This way, Potter," Malfoy said in exasperation. "Slughorn can't begin lessons without his favorite cheater in attendance."

"I don't cheat!"

A doubtful eye raise was Malfoy's only response. His sudden blasé attitude was rubbing Harry the wrong way.

"Why is it that I make sacrifices for you, but you could care less about respecting me or—or anything?" Harry hissed, flinging his arms out to the side.

Other students began to filter into the corridor and Malfoy took a determined step away from him and turned up his nasty scowl to high heat. "Because," Malfoy bit back, then paused, looking flustered. "Just back off for a bit, Potter."

Harry glared. Then he turned and began stomping off toward Potions.

"Oh, and Potty," Malfoy called, sneering. "I've got one piece of advice for you."

Harry stopped. "And what's that?"

"Appearances can be deceiving."

"I'll try to remember that," Harry sneered back and the next things he knew he was swept into a sea of black robes and Malfoy was out of sight.

….

….

….

Appearances can be deceiving. What had Malfoy meant by that? And why was the git causing problems now when things had finally begun to go smoothly between the two of them?

Harry slipped the extra credit worksheet on Weather Charms out of his bag and slyly tucked it into the bin on the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom as he passed. Friend or no, Ron's business wasn't going to stand in the way of some desperately needed bonus points.

Snape had been especially nasty toward Harry this past week. It seemed that no matter what Harry did or how well-written a paper was that he submitted, Snape was determined to make a failure out of him. Defense Against the Dark Arts had always been Harry's best subject, but this year—this week, especially—Snape had been making Harry's life miserable.

Harry had somehow managed to rack up a detention every night for the rest of the week and the next two bloody weeks, as well. On top of that, he'd been told to rewrite every assignment that he'd handed in for minimal mistakes.

It was almost as if Snape was trying to keep Harry constantly occupied.

"Evil tosser," Harry muttered under his breath, then turned and headed toward Potions class.


	22. Chapter 22

The weather was growing warm. The day was hot and humid. Harry sat, stony-faced in his seat by the window of the Potions classroom, watching the rain slide in disjointed rivulets down the panes of the window glass. Every time Harry thought he had predicted the path of a raindrop, it would quickly change direction and veer off course, colliding into another droplet to make its drippy way down to the bottom of the glass.

Slughorn had been droning on for a while. He kept repeating “mugworm” and “constantly, constantly, you must remember,” but Harry, for once, was completely unconcerned with anything the man had to say. 

Slughorn had eventually forgiven Harry, it seemed, once he realized that no harm had come to him from the memory retrieval, though, the man no longer praised Harry for being a hero in class, either. Hermione said this was justified and was currently basking in the praise of the Potions professor as she answered what sounded to Harry like her seventh question of the day.

“Marvelous Granger, marvelous,” Slughorn’s voice faded in and out of Harry’s ears.

Lately, Voldemort had been keeping quiet. Too quiet. There had been no new news on the political front and this lack of information put Harry on edge. Harry had not been assaulted by any foretelling dreams, nor had the Order reported anything new to him. It was possible that the Order was keeping something from him, as they tended to do, or that nothing at all was happening, as Dumbledore liked to tell him, but more likely was the probability that Voldemort and the Death Eaters were planning something . . . something big . . . and whatever it was kept Harry alert and uneasy.

He’d taken Malfoy’s advice, though, and had spoken to Dumbledore about learning Occlumancy. Dumbledore had agreed wholeheartedly, though he still encouraged Harry to seek help from Professor Snape.

That conversation hadn’t ended well. Unable to bite his tongue where it concerned the loyalties of his greasy haired professor, Harry had insinuated that Snape was not to be trusted. Dumbledore usually took these accusations quite well, but this time Dumbledore had grown angry, had told Harry that he was in no place to question his judgment and then, quietly, asked Harry to please leave his office.

He’d acquiesced, only because he was so unused to seeing his Headmaster in such a state. Why, even last year, when Harry had torn the man’s office to shreds, Dumbledore had remained calm. It seemed, however, that every time Harry even mentioned Professor Snape, Dumbledore—and everyone else for that matter—was quick to jump to the bad-tempered bloke’s defense.

Snape was not to be trusted. Harry knew this. It was a shame he could not share this information with anyone but Ron and Hermione, but, as it stood, that was the way things had to be.

After Dumbledore calmed down, he did agree to train Harry in Occlumancy, though he warned him that he was not the best wizard for the job.

They’d practiced a few times and, thanks to the one training session Harry had had with Malfoy, he was finding it easier and easier to clear his mind—whatever that meant—and occlude. Either that, or Dumbledore really wasn’t as good of a Leglimens as people liked to say.

Upon thinking of Malfoy, Harry’s eyes slid to the other side of the room to the empty seat that Malfoy now rarely occupied. Since their confusing fight in the hallway, Malfoy had been absent from nearly all of his classes—at least the ones that he shared with Harry—and had been completely ignoring him.

Harry kept trying to remember the conversation they had had—if Malfoy had said something significant, something that bordered on a desire to no longer see Harry, and kept settling on one thing: Appearances can be deceiving.

He’d said that, hadn’t he? Harry frowned. He was quite sure he had. At first, he hadn’t known what Malfoy had meant, but now it was all too clear. For whatever reason, Malfoy had been stringing him along from the start, just as Harry had always suspected and now it was all over with. Malfoy had obviously gained something from their interaction—probably something important from his sham of an Occlumancy lesson—and now wanted Harry to keep his mind closed from any other invasion. Whether or not that was for Malfoy’s benefit or for Harry’s benefit, he was unsure, but at the end of the day, it really was better for Harry to be able to Occlude, so he had taken the git’s advice.

Interestingly, Harry was not so much angry with Malfoy as he was sad. It was as though he had lost something that he had never noticed before Malfoy had come along.

And he hated that he was sensitive enough to feel this way. It hadn’t really been love, had it? No, it couldn’t have been. They hadn’t even really been together. They’d just been . . . Harry shook his head and blinked. He couldn’t think of a word for it, but whatever it was, it was now gone and it left him feeling empty and vacant inside.

Hermione had noticed the change, as had Ron, though the latter was not inclined to bring up the subject with Harry. Hermione had tried once or twice but Harry had told her to leave it be. He just couldn’t imagine talking about it now, especially since it was over.

Why couldn’t he just trick his brain into believing that it never was? That it had never happened? That would have been easier.

And, as far as anyone else was concerned, it hadn’t happened.

“Psst,” Harry heard a sound from behind him. That day his friends were all sitting in front of him. He ignored the sound and resumed his staring.

“Harry,” the voice whispered. Harry turned behind him and saw Anthony Goldstein and Terry Boot. Anthony was giving Terry a curious look while Terry seemed intent upon gaining Harry’s attention.

Harry smiled politely. He knew Anthony and Terry a bit from their time in the DA last year, but never really hung out with the blokes, other than when they worked on a school project together. After what happened with Terry last year, and the conversation he’d had with Malfoy about it, Harry felt instantly guilty and decided to be extra nice to Terry.

“What’s up?” Harry whispered back.

Terry gave him a funny look, then motioned with his head toward Malfoy’s seat.

Odd, thought Harry. Despite his initial inclination to be kind toward Boot, he returned the gesture with a frown. “What?” he whispered.

Terry gave him a knowing look that made Harry feel immediately irritated. “Meet me after class,” Boot said.

….  
….  
….

Intrigued, Harry waited by an alcove outside of the Potions classroom as the students cleared the corridors and headed to their next class. Eventually, Terry and Anthony made their way towards him. Terry waved off Anthony who looked as confused as Harry felt, and then joined Harry by the alcove, motioning for Harry to walk with him down the corridor in the opposite direction of the students.

Harry remembered something then. The Chapel. Malfoy had said that was Boot’s room, hadn’t he? Harry was quite sure that he had. Boot and Malfoy, if Harry recalled, were sort of friendly—as friendly as a Slytherin and Ravenclaw could be, Harry supposed—but—

Wait a minute. Harry’s dream. When he’d been in the coma. . . . Malfoy had been calling out for Terry Boot or something . . .

Now suspicious, Harry found himself fingering the tip of his wand in his robe pocket. Could Malfoy have set Terry Boot up to something? Was Terry Boot the kind of person that would do Malfoy’s bidding?

Well, Harry was, wasn’t he? And what did that say?

Terry paused for a moment and the second that he did, Harry blurted, “Well? What did you want to tell me about your friend?” He grimaced inwardly at the accusatory tone in his voice. 

Terry Boot only smiled, turned from Harry and continued his walk down the corridor. Their surroundings began to grow familiar and Harry knew that Terry Boot was taking him the Chapel. Harry didn’t want to know what—or who—might be waiting for him in the Chapel, nor did he want to be calmed down by its soothing nature. “Terry, tell me what you wanted to say. I’m not going to your room.”

Boot stopped walking and smiled a bit broader. Harry was ready to tell him to stop looking at him like that when he remembered Boot’s sensitive nature and bit his tongue.

“That’s right,” Boot said. “You’re already well-acquainted with my room.” He looked at Harry as though waiting for him to confirm or deny this. When Harry did neither, he continued. “And, by the way, I think the person we are going to discuss is your friend, too.” He emphasized the word friend and Harry disliked the look in his eye when he said it.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Harry crossed his arms.

“I mean Draco.”

“I know.”

Terry Boot’s smile faded. He gave a heavy sigh and brushed a hand through his sandy auburn hair. “Look, Harry. We’ve both been trying to help Draco, but he isn’t doing well.”

“Is he ever?”

Boot shook his head. “Rarely,” he agreed, “but these past few weeks he’s seemed worse than ever. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

All Harry had noticed was Malfoy’s sudden absence in his life. He frowned and shook his head. “Not specifically.”

Boot’s eyebrows rose. “No?”

Harry shook his head again.

Boot let out a short laugh. “I’m surprised. You usually study him so closely.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Terry Boot gave him a doubtful look and Harry felt himself shrink, slightly. Had he been that obvious? “Anyway,” said Terry, “He won’t talk to me anymore and I noticed you haven’t exactly been talking to him, either.”

Harry scowled at the Ravenclaw meddler. “So?”

“You should ask him how he’s doing,” Boot advised. Harry was about to reply with something cruel when the boy added, “Before it’s too late.”

Harry wasn’t sure what Boot was talking about.

Then it clicked. Terry Boot thought Malfoy was going to hurt himself. Boot had been down this road the year prior and was seeing himself in Malfoy. “He’s not going to do anything like that,” Harry said. “No offense,” he added.

“You don’t believe that,” Terry Boot replied, calmly. It was not a question, but a declaration. Harry didn’t reply.

“Ask him how he’s—”

“I can’t!” Harry exploded. Boot gave him a look. “He’s never around. How can I ask him anything when he won’t talk to me?”

The Ravenclaw breathed in slowly and exhaled slowly. “That’s not the point,” he said, unblinking.

Terry Boot was mad, Harry decided. How could Harry talk to someone who wouldn’t speak with him or who wasn’t actually around to have a conversation? Harry knew Malfoy. If Harry could even get him to converse, it was doubtful that the conversation would border anything near rational. 

“Then what is the point?”

“The point,” said Boot, “is that you ask him how he is doing.”

And with that, Terry Boot clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, gave him a slight nod and continued down the hallway.

….  
….  
….

“Draco, get out of bed.”

Draco blinked stickily and cringed at the squawking voice of the intruder. He’d been lulling in a state of half-sleep—which was the extent of rest he could ask for—and had nearly lost consciousness. Pulling the covers closer to his chin, Draco groaned.

“Draco Malfoy!” the voice snapped. “For God’s sakes you lazy lug, get up!”

Draco scowled and squeezed his eyes closed. “Shut. Up,” he grumbled.

“Oh, wake up you dog.” Pansy smacked his bum and Draco let out piercing yelp. “Come on, Perkis, I’m sure the Great Hall has scraps for you.”

“M not Perkis,” Draco said, reaching an arm out of the covers to smack Pansy’s hand away from his face where he could sense its creeping presence.

Pansy huffed and Draco felt the bed shift where she had plopped herself on top of it. “Draco,” she said and rubbed his shoulder in what she clearly thought was a soothing way, even though it sent chills of discomfort up Draco’s spine. “You need to eat. You’ve been looking particularly peckish and no friend of mine is going to skulk through the school hallways like some half-dead vampire.”

“Come off it, Pans.” He wanted to sleep. Merlin, he just wanted to sleep.

Pansy let out a growl of frustration. “That’s it!” she snapped. Draco’s bed bounced as Pansy stood. He could hear swift footsteps across the room then Pansy let out a throaty, “Urrgh!”

One of Draco’s books hurtled toward his bedpost, landing dangerously close to his head. Draco jumped and glared at Pansy. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, suddenly awake.

“Me?” Pansy roared. She was wearing a Slytherin green rain mac and shiny black galoshes that were leaving small muddy puddles on the floor of Draco’s dorm room. “Draco! I’ve been worried sick about you! I had to bribe the Bloody Baron just to let me in here, you know!”

“Bribe the Bloody Baron?” Draco asked, stupidly. He reached up a hand and scratched the nest of hair on his head.

“Yes,” she said. “Apparently he’s a big fan of Shakespeare. I’m stuck doing a dry reading of “As You Like It” later this evening. I hope you’re happy.”

That did make Draco mildly amused as he knew that Pansy despised the Bloody Baron, but lacking the energy for even a fake smile, Draco settled back into the silk pillows at the head of his bed and stuffed the book under his covers, keeping it well out of Pansy’s dangerous reach.

“Goddammit, Draco,” Pansy hissed. “Did you hear a word I said?”

“Shakespeare. Bloody Baron,” he murmured. “Just go away.”

“I,” she spoke dangerously, “Will. Not.”

“Then you’re,” Draco yawned, “in for a big disappointment, I’m afraid.”

Pansy let out a dignified huff.

“Leave me be.”

The room was quiet for a moment, though, judging by the lack of footsteps, Draco assumed that Pansy was still there. Then, “Well,” she said. “I brought you something to eat, anyway.” Draco peeked open an eye and saw his friend set a napkin bundle on his nightstand. 

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” said Pansy in a tight voice. “Feel better.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” Pansy turned from the bed and walked to the door. “And,” she said, “fuck you, Draco. Just remember when you’re lounging around up here feeling sorry for yourself, I’ll be downstairs spewing love sonnets to a fucking ghost.”

When Draco said nothing, Pansy let out one final growl of frustration then slammed the door in her wake.

….  
….  
….

“Your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbuttoned, your shoe untied, and everything about you demonstrating a careless desolation.”

Harry could hear a girl’s voice, muffled from behind a classroom door. It was evening and most students were in the Great Hall, but Harry had noticed that Malfoy was not in the Great Hall and, taking Terry Boot’s advice, had decided to go try and find him. This was proving to be more difficult than he had thought, as no one seemed to know where Malfoy was and Harry had left his Marauder’s Map in his trunk.

“… as loving yourself than seeming the lover of any other!” Harry noted that the girl’s voice sounded both nasty and familiar. Also, the lilting flow of the speech made the words sound like a sort of poetry. Curiously, he crept closer to the door.

A sullen woe-begone voice rose mistily, interrupting the girl’s tirade with it’s cool authority. “Fair youth, I would I could make thee believe I love.”

Harry blinked. That sounded like a man. A professor maybe? Speaking in such a way to a student? Harry held his breath and leaned closer.

“Me believe it!” The girl’s voice snapped, and Harry had a sudden recollection of the voice that had jarringly coaxed him out of his coma. That sounded like Pansy Parkinson. But who was she with? The male voice did not belong to a student, of that Harry was certain. “But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?” shrieked Parkinson.

“Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.” The deep male voice rose in fury and desperation and Harry widened his eyes, growing more uncomfortable by the second. “Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and the reason why they are not so punished and cured—”

Parkinson let out a soft whimper and, without another thought, Harry whipped out his wand and flung open the door. “Hey!” He cried. “Leave her alo—one . . .” 

Pansy Parkinson was sitting cross-legged on a desk and scowling at an open book in her lap. Across from her was the translucent image of the Bloody Baron, now glaring openly at Harry’s intrusion. Instantly chilled by the look and mortally embarrassed, Harry looked between the two of them, gaping.

“Can I help you, Potter?” Pansy barked. Her knuckles were white around the book she clutched.

“Er—“ Harry began. It seemed he had misjudged the situation but, all the same, he still couldn’t fathom what Parkinson and the Bloody Baron were doing in the classroom. “Is. . . is he—?” The death glare from the Baron made Harry avert his eyes. “Is everything . . er . . . right in here?” He scratched the back of his head and stared at the floor.

“Is everything,” Parkinson repeated, “right?”

“It’s just—I heard—” Harry looked back at the Slytherin girl whose face looked both sarcastic and pissy and felt like a complete idiot. “Sorry,” he sighed. “Never mind. I’ll be . . .” he could feel a blush spreading over his cheeks as he grew more and more flustered. “I’ll just be going now.” He motioned toward the door with his thumb.

Turning to retreat, Harry jumped when the door behind him snapped shut and locked.

“No,” Parkinson said, a look of malicious glee on her piggy face. Harry glanced at the Bloody Baron whose cold face bore a similar look. “Stay.”

….  
….  
….

“As good cause as one would desire; therefore weep,” mumbled Harry. He’d been sitting prisoner in this room with Parkinson and the Baron and was being forced to read the role of “Celia,” as punishment for his meddling. In return, Parkinson had offered to have an important chat with him afterwards. 

“”His very hair is of the dissembling colour,” said Pansy in a lilting voice, gesturing to the Baron.

If one could call “clear” a color, Harry thought. “Something browner than Judas’ marry, his kisses are Judas’ own children.”

“I’faith, his hair is of a good colour.”

“An excellent colour,” Harry murmured, monotonously. “Your chestnut was ever the only colour.”

“And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.” Parkinson said this with a straight face, but smirked at Harry when the Baron wasn’t looking. Harry returned the smirk, to his own surprise, then both averted their eyes when the Bloody Baron turned back to them.

“Er,” Harry mumbled. “He hath brought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter’s sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.”

“I’m growing bored,” The Bloody Baron said suddenly. It was the first time Harry had even heard him speak, besides the lines that he had read in the play. Harry gave Parkinson an uncertain look for, in this insane situation, she was the saner of the two before him and, as such, had become both Harry’s captor and ally.

“As am I,” said Pansy. “Potter?”

Harry opened his mouth to speak but, cowed by the Bloody Baron he settled on, “Er.”

“Tomorrow,” the Baron said with a nod. And with that, he set the book down beside Pansy and floated straight through the wall of the classroom leaving Parkinson and Harry alone.

“So,” Parkinson drawled once the sound of the Bloody Baron’s rattling chains had faded into the distance. “Rescuing my virtue, were you Potter?”

Harry gave an awkward shrug.

“Always the hero,” said Parkinson with a sneer. “But nowhere to be found when someone is truly in need.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Parkinson snapped. “And I know you bloody well heard me the last time I told you he needed help and what did you do?” She continued on without waiting for Harry’s answer. “Nothing. That’s what you did. I warned you and you did nothing.”

“How was I to—?”

“Useless, that’s what you are.”

“Get stuffed, Parkinson.” Harry rose angrily to his feet. Parkinson’s words, though irrational, were hitting very close to home.

“Sit down, Golden Boy.” Parkinson neatly folded the page in her book, closed it and rested it in a pile on top of the Bloody Baron’s copy. “I gave you a tip a few months ago. I warned you of an impending attack and, as you are now aware, the information I gave you was correct.”

“Are you talking about the Azkaban escape?”

“Yes, you nincompoop! I warned you and I told you to wake the fuck up already, but you just slept right on through it, didn’t you?”

Harry let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re mental, you know that? I was in a coma, for Merlin’s sake—”

“Oh, boo hoo—”

“If you’d wanted something done, you should have told Dumbledore, you brainless bint!”

“Draco,” Parkinson hissed, finally speaking the name of the person they both knew they were talking about, “wouldn’t have listened to Dumbledore! God, you’re thick!”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Look. Be reasonable. What’s done is done and, in reality, you and I had very little bearing on what happened.”

“You had PLENTY of bearing on what happened.” Parkinson stood up and approached Harry. “It was all to do with you. If you hadn’t been in a coma none of it would have happened.”

Harry shook his head, knowing that what Parkinson said was true, but not wanting to hear it. “I was poisoned,” he said, helplessly. “By Malfoy, no less, so it’s his own bloody fault.”

“How dare you accuse him?” she snapped. “You have no proof—”

“Oh, he told me,” Harry said with a casual wave of his arm. “Confessed everything.”

That made Parkinson stop. “He did what?”

“Malfoy told me that he put the poison in my drink.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You liar,” she hissed. “He would never say that.”

Shrugging, unaffected, Harry replied, “Well, he did.”

Stiffening, Parkinson took a haughty breath and strode slowly past Harry toward an empty wooden chair. “Well, I’m sure you misunderstood him, that’s all.”

“Look, Parkinson,” Harry said. “I’m not going to rat him out, if that’s what you’re worried about. I knew it was Malfoy from the start.”

“Then you know it wasn’t intended for you!” she cried, then immediately cringed. “Shite,” she admonished herself. “Pansy, you idiot.”

“I know,” said Harry. “He told me.”

Parkinson dropped her hands and gaped at him in disbelief. “Why would he tell you?”

Harry had reckoned it was because Malfoy trusted him. Now, he was as confused as the Slytherin girl in front of him. “I don’t know. To provoke me, I guess.”

“Oh, you’re a fool.”

“How’s that?”

“Potter,” Parkinson sighed and looked up to the ceiling. “God help me, I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You didn’t see Draco that night.”

“Well, I was unconscious,” Harry added.

This was met with a scowl and Harry gestured for Pansy to continue. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “Draco was hysterical. I had to scrape him off the floor and drag him back to Slytherin and—I know what you’re going to say—” she said, holding up a hand in Harry’s face, “and it was not because he had failed in his attempt or gotten himself into trouble. It was because of you.” Parkinson’s blue eyes softened. “He was terrified that he’d lost you.”

“No.”

“Yes, goddammit!” Parkinson stomped her foot childishly and curled her fingers into fists. “And not ‘you’ because of what the Dark Lord would say or ‘you’ because you were another failed attempt.” She sighed. “He cares about you.”

“He cares about himself.”

“So?” Parkinson looked baffled. “He’d be an idiot not to. And,” she added with a flip of her wrist. “Consider yourself lucky to be counted among the few people that Draco actually treasures as much as himself.”

Harry felt uneasy sharing any of this with Parkinson. How much did she know? She couldn’t know everything, there was no way, but he was quite certain that Draco was close with her and told her things. “I don’t trust him,” Harry said. “Or you.”

“Oh, Potter,” she placed a hand on her heart. “An evening of Shakespearean verse and you still don’t trust me? I’m hurt, truly, offended.”

Harry laughed, despite himself. “I’m afraid to ask, but—”

“Why in the hell was I reading Shakespeare with the Baron?” Pansy supplied. 

Harry smirked. “Care to explain?”

“Well,” Pansy spun around dramatically to face Harry, throwing her hands wide to lean against a desk. “That brings me back to my first point. Draco. He needs your help.”

“How can I—?”

“I don’t know, do I?” said Pansy. “But he hasn’t been sleeping and he hasn’t left his dorm. I’m sure you’ve noticed his absence of late?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, please.” Parkinson crossed her arms. “I was worried about his health and made a deal with the Baron to let me into the boys dormitory to see Draco. Not that it did any good.”

“So . . .?”

“So? He likes Shakespeare, Potter. We all have our weaknesses.”

“No, I meant . . . um . . . ”

Parkinson scoffed. “God, the two of you are pathetic. You can’t even say his name?”

“Look,” said Harry, growing annoyed. “I know you’re trying to help in your own way but it isn’t any of your business and—”

“Draco’s business is my business,” she said in a threatening voice.

“Well, not this kind of business,” said Harry, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Parkinson’s eyes lit up like a child on Christmas morning. 

“Oh?” she asked, unfolding her arms and approaching Harry. A delighted smile had morphed her piggy features into something that Harry found frightening and slightly demonic. “What kind of business would that be?”

Thinking fast, Harry said, “Er-business business. The regular kind.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“As in money?” Harry said. “A business deal.”

She raised her other eyebrow.

“Money . . . business,” he stammered.

She blinked, her lips curled into a mocking smile. “Monkey business?”

“Shut up, Parkinson.”

“Fine,” she smirked. “Anyway. Check on your business partner, Potter. I know him. I know something terrible is coming and he’ll listen to you, he will.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Harry said. “Because he isn’t talking to me.”

“Hmmm,” she said, tapping her chin, thoughtfully. “The business deal has fallen out, has it? He no longer has a need for you?”

“Something like that.”

“Seems that way, does it?”

“It is that way, Parkinson,” Harry growled. “Can I go, please?”

“Remember something, Potter,” said Parkinson. “With Draco, looks can be deceiving.”

She unlocked the door with her wand and Harry stomped from the classroom.

….  
….  
….

“Your Majesty!” Winky the House-Elf Apparated into Draco’s dorm room and was staring at him, her eyes as wide as saucers. She gasped. “You is not looking well, Your Majesty!”

“Go away, Winky,” Draco took a shaky breath and slowly turned the page of the Advanced Arithmancy book that he had been reading with one eye opened.

“Oh, Winky is afraid that she cannot be doing that. Winky is a bad House-Elf, she has not been caring for Your Majesty and Your Majesty is looking so very ill.”

Draco sorely wished that Winky would stop calling him “Your Majesty.” Once the novelty had worn off it had grown extremely annoying but, despite repeated requests, Winky continued to use the name. “I just need sleep, Winky. Leave me alone.”

Winky shook her head fervently. “Winky is sorry, Your Majesty, but she cannot be letting you sleep. She is having an urgent message from Maggs. Master Lucius is needing to speak with you right away.”

This got Draco’s attention and he finally peeled his face off of his sheets. “What?” he croaked.

“Master Lucius—”

“Is where?” Draco asked, reaching up to quickly flatten his greasy hair into place. He stumbled out of bed, his legs weak from little use and scrambled into the rumpled robes he had left on the floor several days earlier. 

“At the Manor!”

Draco’s heart froze. He was unable to think, unable to do anything but run around his room like a madman, trying to put everything into place. “I can’t go there!” 

“Oh, but you must—”

“No! I can’t,” Draco’s eyes combed the room wildly for a solution. Snape! Yes, he had to speak with Snape at once.

Winky’s eyes grew impossibly wide. “It is orders, Your Majesty. You must follow orders!”

“Get me Professor Snape,” cried Draco, balling his hands into fists and trying to control his breathing. “Now, Winky!”

Winky nodded and Disapparated.

“Oh, God.” Draco looked at the ceiling. “Oh, shite.” He paced back in forth in front of Crabbe’s bureau, then began to rearrange the items on top of it. There was a small deck of Exploding Snap Cards, a letter from Crabbe’s mum, a lamp that looked like an eyeball and a pile of dust in the corner into which a “V” had been carved. Draco used the box of cards to scrape the dust pile off of the nightstand, sneezing immediately after the dust motes rose and got into his nose, affecting his delicate senses.

Draco sneezed again then jumped when he heard a silky voice say, “Quite ill, are you?”

Draco spun around to face Professor Snape whose crossed arms showed that he was not happy with Draco’s recent behavior, or lack thereof. “Sir, I—”

“Nevermind, Draco. Get a hold of yourself.”

Draco realized that he was sweating and that his hands were trembling. He admonished himself. “For Christ’s sakes,” he grumbled. “It’s just my fucking father.”

“Do not take this lightly, Draco. You are wise to be concerned.”

“Professor, how do I act?” Words seemed to tumble from Draco’s mouth without a filter, exposing his fears to a man he still didn’t quite trust. “I haven’t seen him . . I don’t know. Should I lie?”

“Yes. Your mission comes first. We have already established that Lucius Malfoy has no desire to switch sides for any reason, even for his family.”

Draco inhaled and exhaled very quickly but it was no use. “What—” he faltered, “what do you reckon he wants?”

“I do not know,” said Professor Snape. “But you must be willing to do whatever he tells you to do. Do what you must to prove your loyalty.”

Draco caught sight of himself in the mirror. His face was one of pure, unholy terror. His eyes were wide and his teeth were clenched. “I can’t do it,” he choked. “I’ll mess up. He’ll know I’m really—I can’t—”

Professor Snape let out an exasperated breath. “You can and you will. When did you become such a coward?”

Draco stopped, whipping around angrily to face his professor. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me.”

“I am not—”

“Then stop your foolish whinging. You’ve had weeks to prepare.”

Snape was right. Draco was ready. He had to be.

Snape reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of blue viscous liquid. “Here,” he said, handing the bottle to Draco.

Draco recognized the liquid and gulped the Calming Draught gratefully. Smooth cool tendrils of peace washed through his system and he felt suddenly soothed, indifferent, and prepared to handle his father. Draco licked his lips and stoppered the bottle, handing it back to Snape with a contented sigh. “Thank you,” he said. 

Snape gave Draco a shrewd look. “Not even a grimace,” he murmured. “Most individuals recoil at the taste of a Calming Draught.”

Averting his eyes in embarrassment, Draco said nothing, instead grabbing his bag off of the floor. 

“You is needing your Portkey, Your Majesty,” Winky said, holding a small brown envelope toward Draco. Draco dared a look at Professor Snape, who merely rolled his eyes at the pretentious epithet.

Draco opened the envelope and reached inside to touch the Portkey.

….  
….  
….

Draco landed gracefully on the cool, green and white marble of the entry hall to Malfoy Manor. In front of him was a bust of an earlier ancestor that he used to place his mother’s hats on as a child and force-feed unsweetened tea when his mother was trying to lower his sugar intake.

Before the statue had a chance to reprimand Draco, as was its custom, the clicking of boots could be heard approaching from the left. Draco pulled himself up to his full height and held his breath, despite his mental reminders to breathe.

Draco’s father appeared, dressed in his usual fashionable robes. His hair, however, looked course and matted and his eyes appeared sullen, large and gray in his sunken face. It was the first time Draco had seen his father since the man’s trial and it pained Draco to admit that Azkaban or the Dark Lord—or perhaps both—had left his father in such a state.

Lucius’ expressionless eyes lit up when they fell upon Draco and a look bordering a smile spread across his ashen face. “My son,” he murmured, holding his hands at his sides, palms up, in greeting.

Without thinking, Draco stepped toward his father and embraced him, inhaling the familiar cardamom scent of his spicy cologne and cringing at the knowing betrayal in his own heart. Despite himself, Draco shut his eyes for a moment and pretended that all was as it had been and that his hug could mean that he was still on his father’s side. “Father.” Draco stepped back. “You look . . . well.” He cleared his throat and looked at the ground.

“You are lying, Draco,” his father said. “And I cannot say the same for you.” Lucius stepped back and gave Draco an appraising once-over. He then reached forward and fingered the fabric of Draco’s clothing. “Rumpled robes?” Lucius wrinkled his nose in distaste, then glanced at Draco’s hair. “Have you been showering?” Lucius asked, his voice rising with disgust and concern.

Draco shrunk slightly in embarrassment. “I’ve been ill,” he said feebly.

“That’s no reason to show up in such a state,” snapped Lucius in a hiss. “The Dark Lord is here and could be down any minute. Is this the impression you want to give him? Of a slovenly, couldn’t-be-bothered-to-shower, pure—”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Father,” Draco bit back. “Things have been simply wonderful in your absence.”

“Draco—”

“Where’s mother?” Draco interrupted, knowing full-well that she was gone.

Lucius turned away. Now was Draco’s chance to put on a show. He took a deep breath.

“Father?” he asked in a worried voice, “Where—where is she?”

Lucius shook his head, then turned back to Draco, his eyes fixed on the fireplace in the entryway. “Gone.” His voice was a strained whisper and his face paled as he said the words.

“Gone—? What do you mean?” Draco asked.

“Keep your voice down!” Lucius hissed. “She’s gone. Missing. I’m—” he took a shaky exhale. “I’m sure she knows what she’s doing. Cer-” He cleared his throat. “Certain she must have a plan.” His father’s grey eyes were wide and red and Draco wished he could tell him that he knew where she was. “You know your mother,” Lucius said with a forced laugh.

“Father.”

“My ring,” Lucius said, suddenly, holding up the wedding ring on his left hand. “Still blue, you see?” The silver ring glowed with a faint, blue light. “There’s no reason to be worried, Draco.”

Draco nodded slowly. He’d forgotten about their enchanted rings. As long as his mother was alive, his father’s ring would glow blue, but should anything happen to her, the blue light would fade out. 

Despite Draco’s awareness of Narcissa’s departure, the ring still offered him some small comfort. Knowing she, at least, was safe, gave Draco a tiny modicum of confidence. Whatever he had to do here today—it would all be worth it. She was still alive.

“Come with me, Draco.”

Draco followed his father down the marble corridor and into the Drawing Room—the same room in which Draco was given his Dark Mark. Apparently, the Dark Lord had grown fond of that particular room.

The same eerie feel had fallen over the room as there had been the last time. Draco entered, stiffening when he saw the back of the Dark Lord’s waxy white head peeking over the top of a regal-looking armchair. The chair swiveled and two, red eyes met Draco’s with burning intensity.

Draco dropped instantly to his knees. “My Lord,” he said, bowing his head.

“Draco,” the Dark Lord said in return. “Stand and come closer.”

Draco rose quickly and strode toward the monster, his head still bowed, focusing on the crimson and silver-tipped dragonhide of the Dark Lord’s boots. “Yes, my Lord?”

“Where is your mother?”

Draco cleared his mind. Cleared it with every bit of clearance he could possibly summon. Every wall, every alibi, and everything Draco wanted the Dark Lord to see, he built up around the forefront of his mind. He thought so hard, had practiced so hard, had prepared himself and told himself these lies for so many days and nights, that in this moment he believed them.

He was here to do the Dark Lord’s bidding.

“My father has just informed me that she has vanished.”

“Except,” the Dark Lord murmured, “you know where she is.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lucius gasped softly at Draco’s side.

“My Lord,” Draco said. “I swear to you, I do not. But if I do hear word, you will be the first to know.”

Draco could sense an intrusion in his mind but this time he was prepared and blocked every painful advance.

“Very interesting,” the Dark Lord said, at long last. “It appears as though you know nothing and yet . . .” He chuckled softly. “I find it very peculiar that there is no memory here of the last time that you and Narcissa and myself had our conversation.” The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes and Draco swallowed. “Do you care to explain that?”

Draco was over-Occluding. He was blocking too much and the Dark Lord knew it. Shite. Draco could sense his father’s tension, a mirror of his own. “My Lord—”

“Do you mean it?” he hissed.

Draco widened his eyes, startled. “Yes! Of course, my Lord. I—it was. It’s not something I like to—to think about, it’s—”

“You are hiding things from me.”

Draco’s heart skipped. “No! My Lord, I swear-If I am, it is not intentional. I have never learned to—I would never! Not—”

“Draco!” his father hissed. 

“I—”

“Enough!” The Dark Lord roared. “I took the time to teach you a lesson and you have taken the liberty to hide it from not only me, but also from yourself. Is that what you are trying to say?”

Draco was about to say ‘I guess,’ but had enough sense to know that honesty, whenever possible, was going to be the best policy in this situation. “Yes,” he breathed. “My Lord.”

“Lucius,” said the Dark Lord.

“Yes, My Lord?” Draco’s father’s voice was eager, earnest.

“Your son is a disgrace to the name of Malfoy.”

Draco looked at his father in question. Lucius scowled. “I could not agree more.” 

Draco swallowed bitterly, inexplicably hurt by his father’s remark.

“Pity. A disloyal wife and a disloyal son.”

“My Lord, Narcissa is not—”

“My Lord, I swear, I am loyal to you and you alone—”

A sudden sharp bolt of pain blew Draco off his feet and knocked him onto the floor. He could hear the crack of his father’s head hit the marble beside him. 

“Your words are useless,” The Dark Lord said. “I require more. You have had months now, Draco, months, to prove that you mean what you say and, still, you have disappointed me. I do not give my trust easily and yet, I foolishly entrusted you with a task. Still, we sit here, no further along, despite the lies you have told me of progress. I am ashamed to count you among my number.”

Words of protest died on Draco’s lips. They were useless, anyway.

“Tonight,” said the Dark Lord, “You will have one more chance to prove to me that you are not of the dissembling kind, like your snake of a mother.” 

Draco waited. Lucius was lying, still, on the floor. He dared not look over.

“Finite Incantatem,” said the Dark Lord.

Where he had pointed his wand now sat a woman who bore a striking resemblance to his mother, magically bound and gagged on the floor. Her pale orange hair was loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, leaving strands hanging and sweat-matted to her face. Tears had left dry track marks, but she sat, stock-still, barely moving a muscle. Her eyes fixed on Draco and then on Draco’s father in the corner.

“This is Nymphadora Tonks,” the Dark Lord said and Draco barely suppressed a gasp. The woman’s purple-blue eyes widened. Draco had heard her name before, but had never seen her. His cousin. He could not believe the resemblance. And she was young. She looked only a bit older than himself.

Draco waited for the Dark Lord to continue, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“She is an Auror. A half-blood. And a member of Dumbledore’s Order of the Phoenix,” he spat. “She is also a relative of yours, if I understand correctly. That would make Nymphadora and her mother, your aunt, blood traitors. Also, I have reason to believe that she knows the whereabouts of Narcissa Malfoy. Don’t you, dear?”

The girl shook her head fervently and the Dark Lord laughed.

“Do you agree that she is lying, Draco?”

Draco hoped that she wasn’t. If she was, his mother was about to be found. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Why don’t you ask her where your mother is, Draco. Perhaps the half-blood will listen to family.”

Draco took a deep breath. “Where is my mother?” he asked in a cold voice.

The girl shook her head again. Her eyes were desperate, pleading.

Draco looked to the Dark Lord. He appeared to be taking great pleasure out of the situation. 

“She is lying,” the Dark Lord said. “She should be taught a lesson. Do you agree?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Then I am sure you would be honored at the opportunity to teach her?”

Draco glanced at the woman, then clenched his jaw tightly. He gave a quick, jerky nod. “Y-yes. Thank you. My Lord.”

Lucius had opened his eyes and was watching Draco carefully from the floor. Draco pulled out his wand with trembling hands and gripped the shaft tightly, his mind a whirlwind of false thoughts and walls and the woman on the floor. 

He had to teach her a lesson. What did that mean?

Draco thought he knew what that meant, but he hoped he was wrong.

“Today, Draco.”

“W-which—?”

The Dark Lord let out a low chuckle. “Why, my favorite lesson. What happens to half-blood filth that defy me. The answer, of course, is simple. You do remember the Cruciatus Curse, don’t you, Draco?”

Draco nodded, his throat tight, his stomach turning. There was no way he would be able to do this. And the woman, God, the woman looked so much like his mother.

“What’s the matter, Draco?” The Dark Lord stood, suddenly, his voice now sharp and biting. “Surely a loyal servant to me would not hesitate to do my bidding. I wouldn’t want to have to teach this lesson twice.”

And suddenly, mustering up all the hatred that he had ever felt, all of his fear, all of his bitterness over the unfairness of it all, Draco grit his teeth, raised his arm and, in a broken voice, uttered, “Crucio.”

….  
….  
….

“Weather reports. Free weather reports! Because Weasley’s Weather Watcher cares about you and we’re all in this together.”

Seamus, Dean and Ron were pacing the outskirts of the castle.

“It’s springtime, you ninnies!” Ginny laughed. “What need do we have for a weather report? We get it. Rain or sun. Bring an umbrella.”

Harry laughed extra hard at her joke, still avoiding having a real conversation with her, but wanting her to feel as though he was still on her side. Just not on her side in “that way.”

“That’s what you think,” Ron said. “But you, little sister, are not an expert on Weather Charms, like the Weasley Weather Team, here.”

“Oh, please,” she retorted. “The whole school has caught onto your scam business, you idiot.”

“Hmm, well,” he replied in an easy voice, “We’ll see who’s the idiot tomorrow, then, won’t we?”

“Why?” Hermione asked, her eyes narrowed.

“Oh, no reason,” said Ron. “Oh,” he dug into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Here, Harry. I got another Dumbledore.”

Harry took the Chocolate Frog card and shoved it in his bag with four other Dumbledore cards that had accumulated over the course of the year and a wrinkled up Merlin that he’d found in the boy’s bathroom by the Charms classroom. “Thanks.”

“Harry,” Hermione said in an undertone, pulling him to the side. “Have you heard anything else about the you-know-whats yet?”

Harry shook his head. “But Dumbledore wanted to talk with me today. I have a really strong feeling that something is coming.”

…  
…  
…  
Hermione sat wide-eyed in the Common Room, the worry in her eyes hadn’t lessened. 

“I can’t believe she’s gone missing,” Ron muttered, sullenly. He had his elbow propped up on the arm of the sofa and his chin resting on his fist.

“Tonks is strong,” Hermione said in a shaky voice. “She’ll be fine. She can take care of herself.”

“But she’s so clumsy,” Ron started to say, when Harry interrupted him.

“Tonks is a trained Auror. We know her as our friend, but in battle she is as strong and smart as any fighter. She’s going to be found. She has to.” Harry’s words made him sound more confident than he truly felt. If Tonks had been captured—and she had been—it was only a matter of time before something happened to her or someone else was taken, too.

Ginny seemed to be taking Tonks’ capture harder than anyone. She hadn’t spoken much since Harry had told his friends the news. Harry had been meeting with Dumbledore, discussing an upcoming mission in their hunt for Voldemort’s Horcruxes when Arthur Weasley appeared in the Floo giving only the harried message that Tonks had been taken outside of the Ministry and that the Order suspected Death Eaters were behind it.

Harry noticed Ginny frowning and went to sit beside her. 

“Harry-what if she’s—?”

“Shh,” Harry said, putting a hand on Ginny’s shoulder. “Tonks will be okay, Gin. She has to be.”

“I hope you’re right, Harry.”

Me too, Harry thought.

….  
….  
….

Saturday dawned and brought with it another Hogsmeade weekend. Harry had been in a particularly foul mood as of late and told his friends that he wanted some time alone in the Common Room to study for his upcoming exams.

The truth was, he still wanted to go to Hogsmeade, but he wanted to go by himself. He was still worried about Tonks, but every time he, Ron and Hermione began to have a conversation, it always turned back to Tonks’ whereabouts, and Harry just didn’t want to think about it anymore.

Donning his Invisibility Cloak, Harry traipsed through the village, wary of the darkening clouds and wondering whether Ron had truly seen something nasty in the forecast.

Once the damp chill of the air had seeped near into Harry’s bones, he headed toward the Three Broomsticks, snuck in the door behind a boil-nosed witch, and into an empty booth in the back of the pub to warm up. While he was jealously eyeing the warm, frothy mugs of Butterbeer being held by his fellow schoolmates, two familiar faces walked into the Three Broomsticks.

Alastor Moody and Remus Lupin, wearing grim expressions, picked up drinks at the bar and carried them right toward the booth in which Harry was seated. When Lupin nearly sat in Harry’s lap, Harry quickly slunk onto the floor underneath the table.

Harry adjusted underneath the Invisibility Cloak so he could breath and keep hidden in relative comfort. Then he quieted his breathing and listened.

“In front of everybody,” said Moody in a gruff voice.

Harry pressed his ear closer to the table.

“Where?” Lupin’s voice was strained and he sounded haggard and nervous. “Where, Alastor?”

Moody let out a rumbling growl. “Outside of the Ministry. It was a message, I think. To all of us.”

“And she’s—?”

“Nymphadora is weak and injured, but she will be okay, Remus. We have her at Headquarters. Molly’s watching her.”

Harry closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. Tonks was alright, then. She’d been found.

“Thank God.” Remus let out an exhale and clutched his mug, tightly. “Did she . . Did she say anything?”

Moody grunted. “I can’t say I’m too surprised. I never did trust him, the little snake, no different than his father—”

“Alaster, for God’s sakes, who did it?”

Moody lowered his voice and Harry strained to hear. “Lucius Malfoy’s son. Draco.”

Harry gasped. It was Draco? What had he done to her?

Lupin sighed. “The boy?”

A disgusted scoff met his remark. “Not a ‘boy’, Remus. A Death Eater, same as the rest of them. The little Malfoy tortured Nymphadora and listen here—he laughed while he did it. All she remembers is pain and laughter. She’s lucky to be alive, with her mind still intact, as much as I can tell.”

“Dear God.” Remus murmured. 

Harry had heard enough. Eyes blazing, he scooted out from under the table and stumbled from the pub into the streets of Hogsmeade. 

Kill him. He was going to kill him. And to think, Pansy and Boot were trying to get Harry to feel sorry for him. It was true, then. Malfoy was a Death Eater. 

But then, if he’d been forced into it—

But no one had forced him to laugh. That was just—

Sick. So sick.

Merlin, how could Harry have ever gotten mixed up with him? Stumbling blindly down the dirt road, Harry lifted the a corner of his Invisibility Cloak and spat in the mud. 

“Say, is it raining?” A dark-haired boy, making his way through the village asked another. His companion looked at the spit puddle that had mysteriously formed on the path, then up at the sky and shrugged. 

The other boy held his hand out. “Odd.”

“Well if it hasn’t started,” said the first boy, “Then it will. Ron Weasley said so.”

Harry ignored them and kept scrambling away, his mind a whirlwind of dark thoughts.

After a while, Harry paused. He had been so intent on moving, he hadn’t realized he’d reached the top of the hill outside of the Shrieking Shack. The sky was growing dark and the rain clouds that had been threatening to shower all day had finally seemed to open up, releasing thick, fat droplets on Harry’s head and splattering his glasses.

He remembered how Tonks had helped fix his nose after Malfoy broke it on the train in September.

Merlin. September. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Pushing open the door to the Shrieking Shack, Harry barely hesitated before stepping inside. He kicked the door shut with a clamor and tossed his bag onto the floor beside him. Raising his wand, he cast an Incendio on the fireplace and jumped over the backside of the dusty, old divan in one, fluid motion.

The last time he had been there, the room had been in partial disrepair. The walls were no longer a cheery yellow and this time there wasn’t a basket full of leaky soup and mushy bread.

This time there was no Malfoy.

No one telling him stories about broomsticks or reading to him. No one massaging Harry’s fever aches or dabbing his forehead with a cold cloth. 

Malfoy was dead to him. Gone, dead. Death Eater.

Maybe once someone becomes a Death Eater, they truly die. Becoming a Death Eater was a lot like selling one’s soul, wasn’t it, Harry wondered. Maybe Malfoy had been honest back then, months ago, before he’d received the Dark Mark. Before he tortured his own cousin and laughed about it.

Watching the fire, Harry wished he had floo powder so he could contact or visit Grimmauld Place. Tonks was with Mrs. Weasley there. Perhaps she had more information. 

Then Harry remembered Ron and Hermione and Ginny. They were still worried about Tonks and likely hadn’t heard any word about her safety. The right thing to do would be to head back to the castle and tell them what he had learned, but he didn’t feel ready for a conversation just yet. He was still too upset.

Harry threw his head back in frustration and it smacked against the back of the armrest on the couch. “Ow!” he yelped, then rubbed at his head, angrily. He wanted to believe that Malfoy had been honest when they’d been here months ago. 

And Pansy and Boot. Had they been honest? Or were they working against Harry, too?

But, God, what was the purpose of it all? Why in hell would Malfoy go to so much trouble just to fuck with Harry’s head? It wasn’t accomplishing anything in particular. It held no bearing on Malfoy’s ability to torture others. It got him no farther ahead, except for when Harry had allowed him to see into his mind, but there wasn’t anything there. Not really. Not anything that he could use against him, right?

Then Harry remembered Draco’s task. Perhaps his task was to capture Tonks all along. Capture her and torture her. Maybe that was it and now it was done. Was that possible? Was Malfoy in the clear now?

Dammit. No. Harry was determined not to dwell on this anymore. There were no answers and he should be focusing on other things-like practicing Occlumancy. And making sure this whole ordeal hadn’t fucked with his ability to produce a Patronus.

That couldn’t happen, though. Harry was pretty sure it couldn’t. Still . . .

“Expecto Patronum,” Harry said. And, just as he had hoped, a silver stag burst from the end of his wand and trotted slowly around the perimeter of the room. It stopped and sniffed at a crusty blob on the floor, snorted, and then continued on its way. Harry assumed it was the wet bread from months ago and shut his eyes. He reached a hand up and grasped the locket around his neck, feeling its comforting warmth.

He still had a few hours before he had to head back to the castle. He pulled his Invisibility Cloak up and wrapped it over himself before letting the sound of the rain smacking the warped window panes lull him into slumber.

….  
….  
….

CRACK

Harry jolted awake, a loud bang sounding at the door. It was dark out. He was—wait, where the hell was he?

A few seconds of panicked confusion and Harry remembered that he was still in the Shrieking Shack. Judging by the darkness and the fact that not an ember remained of the fire he had started, Harry assumed it was late in the night.

Adjusting his Invisibility Cloak, he nudged himself into a sitting position and peered over the edge of the divan. Someone was standing in the doorway of the Shrieking Shack, his shadow a dark silhouette, a slightly deeper shade of ebony than the sky framing him.

The door banged open a second time, ricocheting off the wall and bouncing shut again. Then the person began to fumble with the handle and the door opened a third time. The person propelled himself into the room with a gasp, stumbling over to the wall.

“Bloody . . . fuckin’ . . .” the person muttered, throwing his wet belongings down then sinking to floor by the door in a heap. “God. Oh, God, Oh, God, Oh, God.”

There was more fumbling, then the person unscrewed a cap and tossed it to the side. Moonlight caught the glass of the bottle, reflecting on the dark liquid within as the individual tilted it down his throat, taking long, gasping swallows.

The person began to laugh, low in his throat, the laugh growing until it was just a long, drawn out moan, punctuating with three slams of his fist against the floorboards. “I. Can’t! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. God, fucking—! What have I—? Fucked. Fucking. God, so fucked up!”

Slowly, carefully, Harry peeled himself off of the couch. He shuffled ever so slowly toward the door, making certain that he did not trigger the floorboards to creak. As stealthily as Crookshanks on the hunt, Harry sunk into a crouch beside the person, squinting in the scant moonlight, trying to determine his identity.

The person tilted his head back for another drink and, when he did so, the moonlight caught his eyes, grey and red-rimmed and wet and Harry suddenly knew exactly who else had decided to brave the Shrieking Shack for shelter that night.

Fighting the impulse to reach forward and strangle the bastard, Harry shuffled quietly away and sat himself on the floor along the backside of the couch, leaning against the backrest, facing the boy in front of him.

“Lumos,” Malfoy mumbled with a sniffle and then, “Incendio.” The room lit with a dull, red glow and the blonde extinguished his wand light and rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes. 

Malfoy had obviously been drinking, but it didn’t look like he’d been out celebrating a Death Eater victory. He let out of a sort of shudder, then pressed his lips together and fixed his eyes, hard and unblinking on the bottle in his hands. After a moment, he took a deep shaking inhale, as though he was having trouble breathing, then brought the bottle back up to his mouth for more.

After a moment, Malfoy’s face scrunched up and he let a sharp sob, burying his face in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. ‘M so—”

And then he let go. Gasping for breath, sobs choked his throat and he wailed obscenities and apologies and pleas in a language wrought solely of desperation.

Harry watched in uneasy awe. Much like he had in the church, when he’d witnessed Malfoy singing, he was again watching the boy bare his soul and knew he was seeing something that he was not ever supposed to see. This appeared to Harry to be his rival in his lowest moment. Harry had seen him in low moments before, but this time, the self-loathing was evident and rolling off of him in waves and even knowing all that he knew about him, Harry still pitied him. He couldn’t witness someone’s evident pain and not feel sorry—even it was someone who deserved it.

“Why?” Malfoy asked, starting in a light voice and growing progressively louder. “Why like this? This is all you want from me?” Malfoy glared wildly at the ceiling and raised the bottle toward the sky. “Isn’t it, you bastard? Pointless.” He flung his arms out to the sides. “For nothing! Nothing, for nothing, all for nothing.”

Malfoy cries changed to laughter, then. A low, unhappy sound. “It’s all for nothing,” he mused, his voice softer. He took another long swallow from the bottle and then followed it with two, quick short ones and a grimace. “I wonder . . .” Malfoy’s clouded eyes lit up and he scooted onto his knees, set his bottle down a careful distance away and aimed his wand at himself.

Harry widened his eyes and raised his wand, too. What was Malfoy planning to do? A Sleeping Charm?

“Crucio.”

Harry watched in horror as the torture curse hit the boy in front of him and Malfoy fell back with a strangled yell. His wand fell from his grappling fingers. Malfoy gasped, failing to choke out a Finite, though Harry could tell those were the words that were trying to escape his lips.

Snapping out of his shock, Harry yelled, “Finite Incantatem!” and Malfoy’s convulsions thankfully stopped, though he was still moaning pitifully on the floor.

And then laughter. And then moaning. And then “Thirty fucking minutes! Thirty FUCKING—!” And then the blonde smacked his hand against the splintered wooden door with excessive force in a manner that must have been intended to cause injury.

Harry was about to say something when Malfoy let out a sudden, wild roar of frustration that, coming only seconds after the Cruciatus Curse, must have ripped the Slytherin’s voice raw.

Backing away, Harry started to fear that what he was witnessing was an actual mental breakdown and, perhaps for the sake and safety of all in the Wizarding World, he should contact Madame Pomfrey or Saint Mungo’s, rather than try to deal with this himself.

A few moments later, though, Malfoy seemed to have expended whatever energy he’d had left, and, crawling over to the bottle, he took several more sips, then curled into a ball on the floor, resting his head on his wet bag. His eyes were still wide, though bleary with tears and alcohol, and his breathing was heavy and slow. 

Harry was unsure of what to do. He was about to stand up and do something when—

“Potter, take off your Cloak.”

Aha. So Malfoy had heard him. 

“Come on, Potter. Or are you enjoying the show too much?” Malfoy then covered his face with his hands and laughed. “Or maybe . . .” Malfoy’s grin spread, looking out of place on his pale, wild face, stretched wide beneath grievous eyes, “maybe you’ve heard the news. And now you’ve come to avenge your friend.”

Harry remained still and quiet. As long as he was invisible, he still had the advantage.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and dropped his head further. Blonde hair fell long and greasy over his face, looking platinum under the moon and firelight. His sneering mouth was smooshed by the floor, but it didn’t soften the look one bit. “That Halfblood,” he fell into a coughing spell, good breeding still prompting him to reach up and cover his mouth, “Halfblood heifer. That daughter of filth.”

Did Malfoy know he was related to Tonks—that they were first cousins? If he did, Harry assumed the reference to “filth” was more about Tonks’ father than her mother.

“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy taunted, his words a lazy drawl. “Avenge your little friend. I’m sure I’m not the only sixteen year old who can use Unforgivables.” The blonde winked, then rolled onto his back with a dreamy look on his face. “Avada Kedavra, Potter,” he said in a sing-song voice. “That’s it. The words are simple. Nobody would ever know it was you and then I’d be put in my place. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His smile grew and he no longer seemed to be addressing Harry. “It’d all be over then. I wouldn’t have to . . .” 

With a curious look on his face, Malfoy tilted his head back to glance at the floor behind him. “Aha. Right where,” he grunted, struggling into a crawl, “I left it,” and began making his unsteady way over to his wand. 

When Malfoy reached his wand he picked it up, almost lovingly, and cradled in his arms. The white moonlight on his face made him look pale and ethereal, even in his current state—especially, perhaps, in his current state, Harry thought. Broken, fragile and doll-like, ice eyes, that had witnessed horrors, mouth that had inflicted immeasurable pain, hanging gently open in stilled wonderment.

And it was this stillness and this fragility that Harry found to be most chilling. This wasn’t right. This was wrong. Very wrong. And Harry realized in that moment that there was more to Malfoy’s story than he knew.

Appearances can be deceiving.

“Well,” Malfoy whispered to his wand, though apparently still addressing Harry. “Time’s up, Potter.” He blinked. “I’m done.” He tapped his wand against his palm. “Through. Just remember, though, in case no-one ever bothers to tell you, that I did listen to you, you know. I made a choice. Like you said.”

Harry gripped his wand and drew closer.

“I chose you.” Malfoy squeezed his eyes shut with a pained smile and sniffled. “Not that it made a difference. Heh. Cheers.” Then he pointed his wand more firmly at himself. “Avada—“

“No!” Harry leapt onto Malfoy, knocking his wand to the side and clapping his palm over the blonde’s mouth. Teeth bit hard on Harry’s hand as Malfoy grunted and shoved Harry off of him.

The Invisibility Cloak slipped from Harry and he sat angry, wide-eyed and exposed in front of Malfoy. Unable to remain quiet any longer, words tore from Harry’s throat. “You idiot! You fucking idiot!” He straddled the startled, rapidly blinking blonde and dug his fingers into his shoulders, lifting and slamming him against the floor.

“Ow.”

“You stupid fucking idiot! What is wrong with you? What the hell, Malfoy!” Harry snarled, wiping a fleck of spit from his mouth as he was assaulted by Malfoy’s rank alcohol breath that choked the air around them and made him feel dizzy. He wasn’t sure if he was talking about Malfoy’s attempt on his life or his torture of Tonks or what, all he knew was that he didn’t want to believe Malfoy had done any of it. “How could you! How could you do it?”

“Ahh,” Malfoy whined pathetically, “Stop it.”

“You think this is funny, do you?” Harry cried. “What about me? What would I have done? You were going to just— You were!” And to his embarrassment, Harry found that he, himself, was crying. Or, at least, tears were blurring up his vision. He blinked angrily, trying to clear them, refusing to take his hands off of Malfoy in case he grabbed hold of his wand and tried another Unforgivable on himself. 

Malfoy gave him a funny look, then slipped a pale hand up through Harry’s and stroked the pad of his thumb under Harry’s eyes. Then he held the damp finger close to his face and frowned. “You’re crying.”

“I am not!” Harry snapped, his voice cracking. “And so are you! And—that’s besides the point. You almost killed yourself, Malfoy!”

Malfoy blinked, his lips curled up in the corners. “Do you think it would have worked?” he whispered.

Harry leaned back and scrambled off of Malfoy. All he could do was shake his head. “What?”

Malfoy rubbed his shoulders and sat back up, leaning back against the wall. Harry didn’t waste a moment casting Incarcerous on him. Malfoy was clearly unstable. Who knew what he was about to do next?

“Oh, come on, Potter,” Malfoy mumbled, his voice defeated. “Is this truly necessary?”

“What did you do to Tonks?”

Malfoy shook his head.

“What did you do to her, Malfoy?” Harry spat the boy’s name with disgust.

“Nothing she didn’t deserve, Potter,” Malfoy spat back.

Harry’s blood was boiling. “You tortured her, didn’t you?”

Malfoy shrugged, his face unhappy.

“Answer me!”

Malfoy closed his eyes and dropped his head, shaking it back and forth.

“Answer me, you worthless little shite.”

“Why?” Malfoy whispered. “Would make any difference? What’s done is done.”

“That’s—!” Harry sputtered, smacking a hand on the floor. “That is so like you! Never want to take responsibility. Do you even know what that curse does?”

Malfoy whipped his head up, his eyes wild and wide. “WERE YOU NOT IN THE ROOM FIVE FUCKING MINUTES AGO, POTTER?”

“Yeah!” Harry blustered. “So? You were under it for ten seconds, Malfoy and—”

“And it was enough!” Malfoy let out a sharp exhale and bit his lip. “It was— you want to give me more, Potter? Get me back? Go ahead, I dare you.”

“I—”

“In fact, I’m in full support. Go on, Potter. Do your worst.”

Harry looked at the wand in his hand and wondered if he could ever truly do it. A part of him felt like he could, like he could really mean it. But another part of him—the bigger part of him—knew that he could never commit such an act.

Harry shook his head and lowered his wand. 

“Scared, Potty?” Malfoy spat, flecks of spit punctuating his words.

Choosing not to respond, as there was no way he was going to allow Malfoy to goad him into committing an Unforgivable, Harry stared gloomily at the Slytherin’s knees, instead. 

“Potter?” Malfoy pled. “Come on, Potter. Lemme out.”

Harry ignored him and unnecessarily fixed some dusty floral throw pillows into a symmetrical pattern on the floor in front of him, smoothing out the wrinkled lace borders and making sure all of the pillows were facing in the same direction.

“Arse.”

Harry still couldn’t bring himself to speak, he was nearly shaking with anger. 

“At least bring me my bottle . . . “ Malfoy said in a petulant undertone.

“You hurt her,” Harry finally whispered. Malfoy curled his toes and said nothing. “You hurt her,” he said again, this time louder. “She is a good person.”

“I know what she is,” Malfoy muttered.

“You—”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed, though he still wouldn’t look at Harry. “Shut up about it, Potter. I’m warning you.”

“Was that your task?” Harry asked in disgust.

Malfoy snorted. “I wish.”

Harry had to physically hold himself back by clutching onto one of the floor pillows. “You wish?” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Just shut up about it. Now.”

“You feel absolutely no remorse, do you? You don’t even care. You—”

“DON’T TELL ME HOW I FEEL!” Malfoy began to struggle against his restraints. Breathing heavily, he fixed Harry with a feral look. “Don’t,” he snarled. “Don’t you DARE.”

“Then why did you—”

“Why do you think, Potter?” Malfoy let out a short whimper when he realized that fighting against his restraints was useless. “You think I wanted to do that? You think I enjoyed it?”

“Then why did you—”

“Why does everything always have to be spelled out for you?” Malfoy shouted, his hair falling in his eyes. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. “You insist upon seeing things in black and white and that isn’t the way the world works. If it was we wouldn’t be here, and I sure as hell wouldn’t have tortured a woman for thirty fucking minutes, Potter. Merlin, after everything, why do think so little of me?”

Taken aback, Harry answered honestly. “Because it’s all you have given me to work with.”

“No. It’s. Not.” Malfoy’s face scrunched up in frustration, his eyes pained and pleading. “That isn’t true.” 

“Malfoy—”

“I have told you,” Malfoy snarled, “everything that I can tell you. And I have given you so much.” His voice was tight and shaking. “And you treat it like it’s nothing.”

Harry spoke softly. “Well,” he frowned, “sometimes it feels like nothing.”

“Well, I am sorry,” Malfoy whispered, his eyes piercing in their intensity, “but it is all I have.” He dropped his head down and the room was silent for a few moments. Then he added, “And it isn’t nothing.”

Harry looked at him, sad and sick and bound on the floor and something clenched painfully in his chest.

“If you’d just open your eyes, Potter, you’d see that.

….  
….  
….

They sat in silence and Harry fully expected Malfoy to doze off, but that never happened. Instead, the boy stared angrily at his feet and Harry scowled at his own red trainers as his guilt began to escalate. He remembered his conversation with Terry Boot. Boot had seen this coming. He’d been there himself and had seen all the warning signs and had told Harry to talk to Malfoy. Boot had said that Harry should ask Malfoy how he was doing. Perhaps if Harry had done so a day ago, none of this would have happened, or Malfoy at least wouldn’t have tried to hurt himself.

So, Harry gave it a try. “Er, so,” he said into the stillness of the room, trying to come off casual. “H—how are you doing, Malfoy?”

Malfoy slowly raised his head and fixed Harry with an incredulous look. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Feeling incredibly stupid, but not wanting to mess up—Boot had warned him that Malfoy wouldn’t want to have this conversation—he pressed on. “No-I just thought I’d, er, you know, check in. See how you’re doing. That’s all.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed. “That’s very considerate of you, Potter,” he said, slowly. “I’m great. Things are going great. I’m so glad you asked.”

“Malfoy—”

“I got a 100% on my Charms exam last week. Goyle pinned it on the Common Room bulletin board.”  
“O-oh,” said Harry. “Um. Well . . . that’s good news.”

“Yeah.” Malfoy was looking at him like he was crazy, which should have been impossible since Malfoy was the one bound by ropes on the floor. “Yeah, Flitwick put a little broomstick spell-o-sticker on there and everything. It said ‘You’re Flying to Success!’ I like to think of it as a metaphor for my life.”

“That’s . . . good.”

“Yeah.” Malfoy snorted in disgust and rolled his eyes before shutting them. “Right.”

Well, that hadn’t gone so well, Harry thought. Then another thought struck him. “Malfoy, what did you mean before—when you said, um. When you said you—you chose me?”

Opening his eyes, Malfoy’s face twisted into a smirk. “You don’t remember?” He laughed. “That self-righteous talk from months ago? You called me a coward and told me I had to make a choice.”

Harry remembered the conversation. It had been in the Shrieking Shack. He nodded. “You said you didn’t have a choice.”

“Well,” said Malfoy, “as it turns out, I did.”

Harry waited for him to continue. When he didn’t Harry prompted him. “And?”

“And, I chose,” Malfoy snapped. “Would you let me out of these fucking ropes?”

“Don’t change the subject,” said Harry. “Please. Just tell me. What is going on?”

The blonde gave him a sad smile and shook his head. “Potter,” he sighed. “I’ve told you everything you need to know.”

Harry growled in frustration. “But you haven’t told me anything!”

“You are the definition of thick.” Malfoy sighed and shook his head. “I told you before, Potter—If you would just open your eyes, you would see everything.”

Harry huffed and stood up, stomping over the sofa and dropping down on it. Perhaps he was a bit thick, but why did Malfoy insist on speaking in riddles?

“Maybe,” Malfoy yawned, loud and long. “Maybe you need to get new glasses, Potter.”

......

Please leave comments/feedback! It is so welcome and very motivating!!! <3 Kristen

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to good friend and beta Amalin for your wonderful work, editing, tips and tricks and for giving me the confidence and motivation to write this story!


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